


Vessels

by greenfrost



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossing Parallels, Famous Husbands, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Literal Alternate Universe where they don't Fall but they Fall into another Universe, M/M, Murder Husbands on the DL, Not Murder Husbands but Profiler Husbands, Parallel Universes, Post Red Dragon Fight, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Fall (Hannibal), They're hella Famous here, This is a romantic comedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:56:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 57,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27814936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenfrost/pseuds/greenfrost
Summary: AU where they don't fall from the cliff. Instead, they fall to another Universe where they're married and world-famous FBI Profiler Husbands.—-Will hears the ambulance doors open again.“In case this is news to anyone here, Doctor Lecter and Agent Graham are married. You know what that entails: they go to the same hospital and they have marital rights.”
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 128
Kudos: 302





	1. Afterlife

“The sea is only the embodiment of a  
supernatural and wonderful existence.  
It is nothing but love and emotion;  
it is the ‘Living Infinite...”  
― Jules Verne

When they come to, stood under God’s fathomless eyes and His gaping sky, above the ocean’s roar, they agree, upon blood spilled and shed, that it is indeed beautiful.

Will looks into eyes he’s known so well and opens his vessel of understanding, knows that Hannibal would be enveloped by it, caressed in oneness; cocooned. They are conjoined, one in beat and breath, blood and bone.

There is no other way but to end it. If death is known to be a solitary experience, it would not be theirs tonight. Theirs will be the first shared death. They will go together. His vessel will allow it so.

Hannibal gazes at him, then down below the bluff that meets roiling tides, and accepts. Says Will is beautiful. Everything is. Just as Hannibal has created death as a medium of beauty. Just as defeating the Dragon bore witness on how they both danced so beautifully.

Just as Will comes home in Hannibal’s arms.

Just as Hannibal comes home in Will’s arms.

A prickle then a surge of electric runs up the back of his skull. He feels Hannibal shiver. Hannibal’s eyes are burning into him. It would be their last image, an imago they will carry onto the next plane.

He brings his arm around Hannibal’s neck, and feels stronger static there. A swell of wind cajoles to either fall or fly.

_With you, beloved, we fly._

* * *

They closed their eyes and waited for gravity to wrestle with the wind. For a great splash where their bodies will meet the ocean and for the heave of waves to pummel them against the hard face of the rocks.

They were about to tip over but then, they are stumbled backwards, not to the fold of violent waters but to the ground, down to where the Dragon lay dead and defeated. Hands twist and grapple Will like tenacious vines, his wrists both held down, and legs locked to submission.

His hands were hollowly empty. Empty of the man he had just held so fully.

Over the shoulder of an unfamiliar man, he saw Jack Crawford locking his arm around Hannibal. Men in standard paramedic gear, men in FBI jackets came into clear focus. Circling and pining Hannibal down.

Above the din of noise, he waited for the distinct sound of a bullet released from its barrel.

He heard Hannibal say his name.

“What the hell were you doing, Will?” Jack boomed above him; the faint light of the moon casts a shadow from his fedora.

“Trying to kill us, what else? I’m doing you a favor.” Will hissed. It’s quite a futile question, one he thought Jack would have no problem mulling over.

The grips on his body were unrelenting and tight. His shirt was being opened. Pressure and thick wads of gauze are being applied to his leaking shoulder and cheek.

“Kill yourselves?” There is a genuine and unfamiliar tone of shock in Jack’s usual no-nonsense baritone. But Jack asking inane questions is an irritation that Will has no patience in answering. 

In any minute, there would be an FBI-sanctioned execution. Metal would hit skull, brain matter would spatter to the dirt, and Will would have to gather them in his hands. Consume them with the salt of his tears.

“Let me go, I won’t jump, I promise.” Each word opened and stretched the gash on his cheek.

That was all he needed, a loosening of grip and he’s moving to where Hannibal is by feel. His working hand, his left, found an unfamiliar moving form, too bony, upright and wrong. He pushed it away with a strength that surprised even him. His hand connected to another, a hand already reaching for him, and it is the right one. Lowering his head to a blood-soaked and stuttering chest, he encased Hannibal’s body with his own broken one, guarding his heart. Hannibal grunted below him and Hannibal’s arm gripped his shoulder. It must crush him to be under Will’s nearly dead weight but Hannibal only clutched him tighter.

They were slotting back into place, back to where they should have been falling - no, flying- to a place just for them.

They were so close to the edge. If they perform one final fight, one final jump, they would make it. They will die as they should. Merge into the water. Breathe their last as they should.

But Hannibal breathes into Will’s hair. Hannibal is breathing. So, Will decided, they both must breathe.

“Please don’t kill him,” Will managed, the pull to just shut his eyes and succumb to unconsciousness is close. He fought it off by making his plea louder. “Jack, please.” His mind cannot generate other words to say so he repeats ‘please don’t kill him’ over and over.

The optics look terrible, this blatant display of protectiveness, it might cost Will anything to do with Hannibal in the future. It shows attachment. Motive.

But Will continues to shield.

“Why the hell would we do that? Please move, let the EMTs do their work. Hannibal needs immediate medical attention and so do you.”

“No, no, no, you say that then you’d do it. You’ve been waiting for this.” It was in Jack’s eyes from their last conversation, the dead set hunger to bring the devil back down to hell.

Urgent voices plead Jack to remove Will.

Jack grunts an assent. “We’re removing you from Hannibal. You’ll both be in the hospital together. You won’t be apart for too long.” Hands claw on Will’s arms and legs; he’s pulled from Hannibal’s hand and he’s pushed into a stretcher. He fought and thrashed. He felt tight straps connect to his arms and chest.

_You won’t be apart for too long._

He registers Jack’s words. It was said like a promise and found it heartless, even for Jack.

He’s in an ambulance now and hands work on his leaking body. He pried his eyes open again and this time he saw through the vehicle’s open door that Hannibal is being worked on, two paddles raised and dropped to the chest where Will laid his head mere minutes ago. He berates himself. Because of his little display, he delayed minutes. He may have deprived oxygen. But it’s alright. If Hannibal dies, he won’t be far behind. He closes his eyes because he cannot bear to know.

_Alright, clear, we have him,_ he hears a woman declare.

The ambulance door shuts.

Will knows, anyway, that Hannibal wouldn’t fucking dare die without him. Hannibal being rolled unconscious to an ambulance won’t be the last time he’ll see the man alive. He’s too theatrical for that inelegant a visual.

He hears the doors open again. 

“In case this is news to anyone here, Doctor Lecter and Mr. Graham are married. You know what that entails: they go to the same hospital and they have marital rights.”

* * *

“Hey, Dad.” A girl’s voice said softly. He feels a squeeze on his hand.

Abigail.

Right on schedule, his little figment daughter. He could feel the bones of her tiny hand against his. His companion to the afterlife has become more and more sophisticated. 

“Hello Abigail.” _You always held my hand when I couldn’t grasp Hannibal’s hold on my mind._

He finds and clicks the call button. A male nurse pops in with a: “How are you feeling, Mister Graham?” and behind him: a man in plain black jacket. Stone bearings, unmoveable face. FBI.

“I’m in pain,” he rasps at the nurse. The nurse says something Will didn’t catch because he feels a pull of suture threads at his cheeks as soon as he finishes the word ‘pain’.

A wave of ache threatens to hand him a blackout but a blackout can be indulged later. As soon as he knows about Hannibal.

He looks at the man in black. “Special agent, what happened to Hannibal Lecter?”

A wave of nausea rolls off his skin. He blinks it out, careful not to shake his head to avoid another bout.

Showing his hand again. Asking about Hannibal the first chance he gets.

“He’s in the next room, Dad,” Abigail interjects with a firm squeeze on his hand. “I’ll tell him, Agent Roy.” The man nods at her and closes the door.

Abigail holds a up a cup of water and brings it slowly to his lips, cupping her other hand under his chin. She wipes dribble from the corners of his mouth.

He is imagining this, definitely. A hallucination intelligent enough to go around hospital halls to peek through rooms, provide him touch, give him water. And dismiss special agents.

“While you were out, he’s gone through surgery, then to the ICU for close monitoring then transferred next door. He still hasn’t woken up but Uncle Jack and I were willing to bet that once you’ll come to, he’ll follow suit. So, it won’t be long now. The last time, it was Daddy who woke up first. Though, none of you got shot at that time. Anyway, Dad, I was really worried.”

She kisses his cheek and brushes his hair with her fingers, as if she’s done it a hundred times. He felt that contact of lips to cheek, fingers to scalp and wow, has he really gone too far with his imaginings.

He stares blankly as one does when confronted with a hallucination that went beyond what one expects to concoct for oneself. Will appraises her fully for the first time. Physically, she was the same as his previous Abigail. Or Abigails, real and imagined. The round, blue eyes that had looked always so, so lost. Now she looks… found. The same scar on her neck is still there but she wears it openly, with just the collar of her blouse for coverage. A bearing that is upright and confident. She speaks louder, more expressive. He doesn’t remember a time that she’s spoken this much and this fast.

“It’s okay,” he manages to say and he knows he’s saying this more to himself than this girl out of magic.

“It’s really not. I was the one who suggested that you guys spend the weekend at the cliff house. If you just stayed home, you would have been safe. Dolarhyde wouldn’t have followed you and Daddy.”

_Daddy_. Yeah, Will heard it the first time. Of course, the bastard would want a more endearing term. It fits, in another reality, if this was as real as reality gets, Hannibal would obviously be the wife. He feels the strong urge to laugh.

So, in this hallucination, the cliff house, Hannibal’s house for stowing away his undead girls, was common knowledge. Jack got there soon enough, just in time to save them from falling over. Will and Hannibal are married dads who spent a lovely weekend at their vacation home at the behest of their daughter. Dolarhyde followed, attacked and there was no choice for the murder husbands but to defend themselves. It was perfect. A righteous kill. Will is definitely in a circle of hell because real life could never happen this wonderfully.

“He would have come for us either way. It’s better there than the house.” Will blinks back a sharp sting of tears as an intense wave of pain rolls over his entire skull. He doesn’t know why he’s making the effort of making imaginary Abigail feel better. He supposed it’s only fair, she rallied him to semi-sanity years ago.

There’s a knock on the door. The nurse is back with a tray of syringes. Will’s last hospital stay had him very thankful for the pain medication and he does not want to be a hero and bear it for the sake of his kidneys. He knows his limit and when this is over, he will resume with his aspirin popping.

He wants to ask the man if Abigail is real but the pain did not allow him to conjure up acceptable words of query except for, Mister, is this girl real?

The nurse does it for him. “Hi, my name is Tom, I’m your nurse this afternoon. Can you state your name please? I will need to acknowledge that I am giving this medicine to the right patient.”

“William Graham. This is my daughter, Abigail.” He says, slowly, careful not to open his mouth too widely.

The nurse smiles at her and says, “Hi again Abigail. We’ve met,” he tells Will as he slots the needle into the medication port and pushes the plunger. He feels a sting on his arm and sighs as the familiar slow lull of morphine seeps in his system.

“Hi again, Tom.” Abigail beams. It’s one of the most beautiful things he’s ever seen. A rarity only witnessed in the confines of his memory stream. He never thought he’d see her show open friendliness so easily. “I’ve assigned Tom to be on Daddy watch today.”

“Don’t worry, you will be the first to know once Doctor Lecter wakes up.”

_Don't you mean Daddy?_ Will almost says as Tom checks his machines and takes his leave.

Hannibal as a daddy. He just fucking can’t. This world seems like one big Hannibal Lecter wish fulfillment. From Abigail as their ward and a well-adjusted young adult, to Will and Hannibal legally married. Not that Will thinks that Hannibal has specifically expressed that he wants to marry Will or have any semblance of a relationship other than co-sharers of a wickedness delighting lifestyle but this world sure has thrusted an easier path for Hannibal to navigate.

There were many labels that could fit them in this world but is Hannibal still the serial-killing, people-eating Hannibal? Is Will the same profiler? Will could say the he might be the same, given that Jack is in his life (apparently Uncle Jack to Abigail) and there’s FBI guarding outside his door. Hannibal here obviously isn’t the incarcerated Hannibal Lecter or there wouldn’t be this nice nurse on Daddy watch. Hannibal would’ve been in an undisclosed medical facility. No, Hannibal would be dead, just as Jack had planned.

Will shall, of course, see where this leads him. The time for initial shock has passed. Abigail is alive and vibrant and calls him Dad. Hannibal is next door awaiting consciousness. The thought alone allowed him to breathe.

Will looks openly at Abigail and says hi, mustering up a little smile. Like he’s meeting her for the first time.

“Is the medicine kicking in? Let me know if there’s any nausea.” She takes his hand again.

“Don’t worry, I know my morphine.”

“You rest. I’ll wake you up when he’s up. It’s finals week so I brought my books. I’ll be studying here.”

“What are you studying?” Will remembers hearing from Alana that past Abigail couldn’t get into schools because most of her father’s victims went there.

“I have a huge test in cell biology tomorrow. Then bio chem the next day. It’s a good thing I spent the weekend making summaries so I’ll only have to review that massive book over there.” She groans and points to an agreeably large book on a settee.

Will thinks this through to avoid saying anything unnecessary. “Pre-med is a pain,” he grumbles, hazarding a guess.

Abigail giggles and her eyes catch the afternoon light and Will marvels at that. “That is highly accurate. I should have taken up criminal justice like you. There’s no need to look at a microscope all day.”

Will does not want to delve in a whole thing about him having a cursed microscope that allows him to have a glimpse of murderer's minds. So, he says, “But you love it,” instead.  
.  
Another smile and Will basks in the radiance of it. “Yeah. I sometimes just think how hard it was for Daddy when he was in med school. He studied medicine in France then he had to learn English to pass the medicine boards here. I just think about that and soldier on.”

“Another Doctor Lecter.” It lends a new meaning to the many ill things that ‘Doctor Lecter’ bore in Will’s past.

“He wishes. Future Doctor Abigail Graham, here to stitch you up when hospitals won’t take you in anymore.”

Oh. She took his name? When they get home, wherever it is, and assuming they all live in the same house, he’ll go through all possible documentations so he’ll know his place.

“But seriously,” Abigail continues. “I got really scared and if it weren’t for Alana and Uncle Jack, I would have been a total wreck. Alana walked me through what they’re doing to Daddy in surgery and I felt a lot better that I know what to expect. You still didn’t wake up and Daddy looks so different in there. You both look so beaten up and I’m so angry at myself—”

“Abigail, please,” Will cuts off as fresh tears fall from her eyes. She nods and buries her face in his shoulder. Will awkwardly wraps his arm to the small of her back. “It’s not your fault,” he murmurs to her hair.

“I know it’s like a game we play who wakes up first but I hate it now that you’re both out and I sometimes want to shake you both awake. Please promise me that you’ll think of me when you know you're going to step into bad situations. Don’t go if you know it might kill you. Please always fight to live, Dad.”

“We do. We’re here. Alive. For you.” Will knows this as the absolute truth. In some warped way his or his and Hannibal’s purpose, may be to recreate a place of wholeness for Abigail, where she is her own person, her own future Doctor Abigail Graham, a future wife or mother. She’s not a surprise present for Will, not a retaliation on Will’s surprise for Hannibal.

“Tell me about cell biology.”

So, Abigail regales him the adventures of the molecules in active and passive transport. Will does not remember falling asleep but he wakes up to a knock.

Tom walks in with a wheelchair. “I assume you both know what this means,” he says with a wide smile. “Are you up for visiting your husband, Mister Graham? He asked for you first thing.”

_Fucking finally, Hannibal._ “Am I ever.”

Tom and Abigail proficiently help him down. Half of his face and shoulder was wrapped in a bandage so it was hard to maneuver with only half of his body functional. He feels a wave of gratefulness that he has someone other than a health care worker assisting him. He never had this before. That he has a ‘loved one’ in a hospital room.

They wheel him to an FBI guarded door. The agent just nods at Will and he returns the courtesy. Even though Will wants to question the FBI presence, he suspects it’s just routine. They’re still FBI consultants in this world. Jack saving them both could attest to that.

The absurdity of it all. That room contains the most dangerous man in America and people are just breezing around that fact. They don’t know what he could do, what he's capable of. It hits Will that he doesn’t know what kind of Hannibal is in there. He might be the version of the man in the early stages of their acquaintance. Or the version who still wants to eat his brain. Or the man who now regrets putting his arms around Will and allow him to plunge to their death.

“Can I first talk to him in private, Abigail?”

Abigail nods, as if expecting it. “But just around five minutes this time. You’re not allowed to make out with that gash on your cheek. The doctor said you’ll risk tearing it.”

Will doesn’t know if a man his age has a capability to blush but he feels it, a flush in both cheeks and a hotness on his neck. He hasn’t considered the Will Graham in this particular sphere. Was he the type that just climbs on his husband’s sick bed and go at it, injuries none-withstanding? And did Abigail actually ask a doctor if Will is allowed to ‘make out’ with her Daddy? It’s ridiculous, all of it. He imagines… wait, no, he’s not doing that here.

“I’m not going to," Will replies weakly. It feels hot around his ears.

“A close-mouthed kiss should do for the meantime,” Tom says helpfully and opens the door.

Will wheels himself in and closes the door behind him.

“Hello, Hannibal.”

“Hello, Will.”


	2. Everybody Here Wants You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal and Will meet again but people keep bursting in that hospital door. A peek at how people regard them in this universe. P.S. Jack ships them hard.

Every stretch of time that Will shared with Hannibal has been planted on the banks of his stream.

A hanging tree stands dry and gnarled, its branches are strung with thick but limp nooses: mementos of betrayals come and gone. A lush vertical herb garden on a stone wall looms next to an open saloon resonant with conversations as striking and deceptive as the fish lures that lay breezily on top of a long black marbled table. Buds burst and weep inky-red blots whenever Will traverses by his Crepe Myrtle tree. A steady wind would sway the tears and whisper to Will’s hair and spatter them to the next structure - a wall filled with the etchings of Will’s reveries. Hannibal does not have moments here but it’s still quite the same: thoughts of him are splattered all over. Saplings never stay as such, because whenever Will plants them on a patch of earth, they grow quickly and sturdily and would fill the architecture as if it has grown there for centuries.

This seed of memory with Hannibal, as he sits there with shining eyes locked solidly to his, would easily structure itself to be a white marbled monument filled with slashes of small, vibrant fires. It will be planted along the sculptures of their re-meetings.

They’re in a hospital room, he’s well-aware. But his mind has decorated it in chromatic reds and flurry sonnets. In surging vibratos and flowered scents. With heady air and light feet.

It will always remain novel: the sheer irresistibility of this man.

The marigold afternoon sunlight has carved dark contours on Hannibal’s cheeks and his lips are just two thin slants. But Hannibal’s eyes rebel against the story that the rest of his body tells. They are alight, broadcasting visible relief, joy, and some expressions fast and quickly hidden for Will to interpret.

Will doesn’t remember how he got up, how he got to Hannibal’s bed so quickly but he’s there, as close as he can be, eyes never leaving his face.

He shouldn’t get sentimental. Emotional, whatever. Tears are attempting to spill from his eyes because here is Hannibal.

Whole. 

Free.

Hannibal’s mouth is half-open with what seems like open wonder and his glazed eyes are dancing all over Will’s face. Flickering on his lashes when he did rapid blinks, then, on his mouth when he lifted a half-smile.

Will reaches out his good hand and Hannibal, sitting upright, takes it and pulls, quite hard, toward him. That stumbles Will to the upright bedside rail and upon instinct, Will raised his bad, Dolarhyde-sliced shoulder to keep his balance. The stretch from the breaking of skin on shoulder was loud and shot an exquisite, blinding pain from his head all the way down to his fingers. The IV cannula gets dislodged from the vein on his wrist. He blinks back a sharp sting of tears. 

Hannibal cups his right hand on Will’s good cheek. “You are not imagined.” Hannibal says slowly. There’s a fogged, medicated quality to his expression.

“If you wanted to know I was real, you could have just pinched me.” He hisses, taking deep, steadying breaths that only a man well-oriented with pain knows how to. Hannibal quickly lets go and places both hands primly on his lap, looking like he’s been caught out in doing something untoward.

 _God damn it, Hannibal_. It’s typical, really. Should have expected this. Every significant reunion would start out good and someone would say something poetic. Then, the spell breaks and someone (mostly Will) ends up bleeding. Didn’t need have to use a weapon to break skin this time. He limps back to his wheelchair and tries to focus not to pass out.

Yeah, that didn’t take long for them to travel from high fantasy to grounding reality. Now, a hospital gown-clad Hannibal surrounded by IV bags and tubes and beeping machines is all he could see.

“I thought I have died and this would be the afterlife.” He managed to smile and nod, in spite of the pain. This is the confirmation Will needed to hear, that this is his Hannibal, crossing over spatial thresholds with him.

_Because you are conjoined._

“So, you try to kill me too?” Will is still pissed, in spite of the relief that this is his Hannibal right there, causing pain, as per usual. Because now his inner cheek has also decided to join in on the pain parade. “We’re in another universe, I think. No one’s dead. All three back together.” 

“Three?”

On cue, Abigail bursts inside and runs to Hannibal’s bed.

“It’s my turn to kiss Daddy.”

She wastes no time in wrapping her arms around Hannibal and peppers him with kisses across his lips, eyes and forehead. While Will only got a soft peck on the cheek, Hannibal was awarded with what seems like a hundred. It’s evident who’s the spoiler parent here. Will would be jealous if it weren’t so endearing.

“Daddy, you had me so worried.”

Said Daddy remains a perfect picture of perplexity. He gives Will a questioning look. Hannibal's already been duly informed about this alternative universe. _You figure it out_ , Will smirks back.

“Let him breathe, Abigail,” he says, sternly, as if he chastises her all the time. Just wants her to stop with all that kissing. He’s feeling tiny pangs of irritation of them sharing tender affections. No one’s being tender with him and he’s the one who’s bleeding all over the place. His bandage is wet with seeped blood. 

She goes to give Will a kiss on the forehead, as if to make him feel included. So, 2-100 in the kiss count, then. He couldn’t help but chortle at Hannibal’s change in expression. He looks shy. All color went back to his face, a more pronounced blush on top of the planes of his cheekbones. They were both grown men who can still be subject to obvious blushing. What is this world they found themselves into?

Hannibal is reaching out to her, beckoning to his side. Greedy man. She lowers the bedrail and slots herself happily in his arms. It’s a picture that Will thought he would never get to see in his lifetime. Hannibal still hasn’t spoken. Will worries if there’s a heart attack looming.

“Darling,” Hannibal looks at Will as he says it then kisses the top of her head. “I’ve missed you.”

“I don’t like your haircut,” declares Abigail from Hannibal’s chest.

“It’s prison-cut inspired," quips Will and Hannibal shoots him a half-playful and half-scathing look.

“Makes you look younger, though. Your fans would have a field day.”

“Telling someone they look younger after an alter in appearance implies that they presently look old,” hums Hannibal. He runs his fingers over her hair.

“Well, you do,” says Abigail matter-of-factly. “Did you surprise Dad with that or did you run that by him?”

“Do I always consult your father even in trivial matters such as haircuts?”

“Well, Dad always likes to muss up your hair.” She gives a playful tuff at Hannibal’s hair and Will could swear that he’s purring. Hannibal looks down for a moment and lifts his mouth to a smile. Like he was imagining Will actually mussing up his hair. Will connects with Hannibal’s mental image and oh God, again, Will fucking blushes.

“Does he, now?” Hannibal gives a teasing look at Will, as if it was actually Will who does that and not the other, uh, Will. 

There goes the manly blushing again. Hannibal looks flushed. Will doesn’t know the state and color of his own face but he feels ridiculous tingles around his ears.

“There are other ways to muss up Daddy, Abigail.” Will says, and Hannibal gives him an open, terrifying expression. _You know better, Will, when you talk to me like that._ Oh, Will knows he will pay for that in the future, dearly and he cannot wait. Yeah, he didn’t know what came over him to say that but it was worth it to see Hannibal all flustered.

“Gross, Dad. Not in front of the children.”

Will anticipates this reaction well from kids. Wally, even as young as he is, would know gross parental flirting when he hears one.

Shit, Wally and Molly. They seemed a lifetime, no, a universe ago. He wonders how they are faring, on the other side. Or if they ever existed at all. It is as if Will has been living this life now, born fully-formed, even if he hasn’t even completed a day of full consciousness in it. He misses them. But life (is it life?) has handed him a new family, switched genders for partner and child and Will Graham will adapt. He would just need to allow a special time, a time-deposited mental breakdown, on when he would properly, as the kids would say, _freak out_ , about this predicament and he’ll come out fine. It’s fine. His life on the previous world had seen its fair share of weirdness, what would make this any different?

He has had a family with Molly and that taught him the dynamics of a married couple. You laugh, you tease, you flirt, you talk. You disgust your children.

Hannibal dons his second stunned look for the day. Will is definitely going to enjoy watching Hannibal’s face employ never-before-seen expressions. He did not expect to be the one who recovered from the circumstances faster than him but, to be fair, the man did just wake up and found out he holds all this without an ounce of work. His teacup whole and full. They are husbands with a daughter. It’s so easy. Will thinks they would suffer and pay for it later. That would be an absolute thing. But at the moment, he finds himself not fretting about it. Hannibal told him not too long ago that he worries too much. So, this is him now, a new non-worrying Will Graham.

_Let’s see how long that lasts._

Abigail kisses Hannibal’s cheek and straightens up. She puts the bed rails back up and tuts over his beddings.

“I would like to talk to the attending physician,” Hannibal says, sitting up straight. “I would like us to go home immediately.”

“Whoa, steady there, sir. You have a colostomy bag, a catheter, you just had a blood transfusion. Your antibiotics cycle isn’t finished yet. Not, going anywhere, Mister.”

Will catches Hannibal’s miniscule flinch when Abigail listed out all the unappealing things attached to his body. He can’t help but feel a bit smug that Hannibal is going through the indignity of infirmary. He and Abigail had their share of difficult hospitalizations. Abigail even went to the morgue. It’s Hannibal’s turn to be on that bed, being told he can’t go home because he has contents from his intestine dripping to a bag.

Will Graham would like to say thank you to this universe for being a just and fair one.

Will understands, though. Hannibal wants to see the reality immediately. Have the control back. That he could go home when he wants because he can.

“Will.” He fixes Will with a straight gaze.

“Future Doctor Graham is right, Hannibal. You and I still need to recover. We’ll go home together.”

Hannibal’s eyes flash at ‘Doctor Graham’ and he nods. “As you both wish. As long as you come home at the same time as I do.” He’s addressing this to Will.

It’s funny how this beast before him has now easily acquiesced to the chidings of his instant family. Either he’s playing the part well or he has just released his façade and honestly just wants to belong in this unit.

“I promise, Hannibal.” Will says and Hannibal is reading his face for signs of fabrication.

“Thank you, Will.”

“You both sound so formal.” Abigail notes in a low tone.

She’s fussing over Will now, pulling out the strings at the back of his hospital gown and retying them back. Will’s staring down at his own hands but he knows Hannibal is fixing them both with an incredulous gaze. _Get over it, Hannibal, geez._ He wonders what ridiculous pet name they call each other in this world and suspects that they seldom address each other by their own names and Abigail had picked up on that. As

Their quiet moment is interrupted by a knock then an array of white coats step inside. The three of them stiffen and compose themselves. Feeling self-conscious, Will brushes his hair with his fingers and notices it’s not matted and sticky. It’s been shampooed. It must be Abigail’s doing.

Abigail hurriedly drapes a navy-blue wool sweater over Hannibal’s shoulder then sets an identical one over Will as well. Wraps a thick black blanket over Will’s bare legs.

A middle-aged and portly white coat, steps forward from a line of twenty-something interns. He acknowledges the two Grahams and Doctor Lecter. Then calls Hannibal by his first name, clearly letting the room know that they are on a first name basis. Half a dozen medical interns were pushing to get inside. They wear identical awe-struck expressions at the sight of the three of them.

“Joseph,” Hannibal says, regally. Like a king holding court. “I see you still haven’t aged a day. I am immediately taken back to our heady days at Johns Hopkins.” The doctor preens at this remark. It’s clear he had pompously conveyed to this group that he was tight with the esteemed Doctor Lecter.

Then the next minutes was a bunch of doctor-speak that was actually just a good old pissing contest. Every time Hannibal inquires about the treatment approach and medication cocktails, whatever, Dr. Joseph would volley back with his own defense, seemingly wanting to show his interns that he could out-doctor dear Doctor Lecter. Seems like Hannibal is winning, though. They all could not look more impressed. Every one of them were taking notes while looking dreamily at Hannibal. He suspects the girl with the short spiky hair was actually sketching Hannibal by the way her pen streaks across her notebook.

 _HE EATS PEOPLE!_ Will wants to yell.

But, judging by their looks of pure worship, perhaps they wouldn’t even bat an eye. They’d probably just fight over who gets to be eaten first.

“I trust Doctor Mc Namara was up to the task of stitching my husband’s cheek?”

So, Hannibal’s adapting nicely to the situation, estimating that if Joseph, who he clearly knows, exists, then so would a Dr. Mc Namara.

“Yes, Doctor err, Hannibal, she saved all his nerve endings. We pulled her out from an elective just for your husband.” When Hannibal says thank you and that he is indebted to him, the doctor basically bowed from Hannibal’s benediction. Will gets it. Hannibal can be very charming. More so if this magnetic, cultured man’s full attention is directed solely to you.

Joseph then asks one of his interns to check Doctor Lecter’s dressings. One male intern practically runs to Hannibal’s bed. “I love your new haircut, Doctor Lecter,” he breathes in full reverence. The gaggle of interns chorus in agreement.

“Thank you,” Hannibal reads the man’s name plate. “Doctor Simpson,” he adds graciously. Will reads Dr. Simpson’s expression, a fully-grown man, as: ‘oh my God, he said my name!’

Will makes a mental note to tell Abigail that this is not appropriate bedside behavior for a medical practitioner. That even if she meets whoever she most admires, she should always remain professional and not openly admire someone’s hairstyle most especially in front of admired person’s husband.

He catches Hannibal looking at him.

_See? See what this new world is offering us?_

Will returns with a small smile.

He hears a collective ‘aww’ by the door and good god, why is everyone acting like they are in high school? The Surly Professor Graham in him fights the urge to scold these _children_ for disorderly conduct because they are not watching some kind of Hallmark movie. They are in a professional setting where gushing helplessly when two men exchange looks is highly inappropriate.

If this world has a semblance of the real Will and Hannibal, they definitely would not choose a lifestyle that yielded too much attention. Will was Will, near the spectrum, constantly has violent minds as passengers in his head, always saying dark and creepy things, that Will. More so for Hannibal. He may belong to the Baltimore elite but it is an almost esoteric circle, not quite for mass consumption. Being too well-known would also hinder Hannibal’s hunting and would affect his predilection on collecting and eating organs from his murder tableau victims. 

This is obviously Freddie Lounds’ doing, capitalizing them as actual legally-binding murder husbands. Checking her website and let her tear everything down is definitely on top of his list when they are discharged.

“Oh my god, Dad, you’re bleeding.”

Finally, someone tears their eyes away from the venerable Doctor Lecter to attend to someone who actually needs medical attention. He doesn’t remember when the pain has not become an immediate concern for him anymore. Maybe because all of this is distractingly amusing. Afterall, who would have thought Hannibal ‘the Cannibal’ Lecter would experience such innocent devotion again. None of the macabre fascination he received from pencil lickers. Just open admiration of his skills, persona and apparently, hairstyle.

Two doctors are on him in a flash. One says he’ll fetch Will’s chart. Doctor Joseph barks out medical orders. Will hears a distinct sound of a sniff at the back of his head. Did someone just smell him?

Hannibal is watching them with a critical eye as one intern reinstalls Will’s IV line. The intern’s hands give tiny conscious shakes as she slots the intravenous cannula to a vein on the back of Will’s hand. She nervously glances at Hannibal after she successfully lodged it and looks like she’s about to faint when Hannibal told her: ‘good work, Doctor’. 

Nurse Tom steps inside and gives Will his pain medication. He feels a hand, not Abigail’s, sweep through his hair as if he’s a child who needed comfort from the bad needle. Hannibal clears his throat and fixes the offending hand with a deadly stare. The hand quickly removes itself and says a hushed sorry. He hears someone say ‘Nice’. Will suspects they gave each other secret high fives. 

He now somehow understands why Hannibal wants to eat rude people.

He focuses instead on Abigail because she is a wonder. She observes the treating of Will’s wound with rapt eyes and directs smart questions about the procedure. It seems she is used to the attention but she doesn’t come off as entitled. She acknowledges their need to please her by seemingly remaining unaffected by their open stares and just goes straight to business.

The white coats finally leave with an assurance from Doctor Joseph, that if everything goes according to plan, they will both be discharged after three days.

The interns break into excited chatter and most of them took out their phones and are typing furiously, no doubt relaying (twittering?) about their day in Hannibal Lecter’s hospital room.

Will and Abigail give out identical sighs when the door closes. Hannibal leans his body back.

“That was more exhausting than getting stabbed,” remarks Will. It’s from all those eyes on them, weighing him down.

“Or having my neck slit open,” Abigail agrees with a tiny smile.

They both look at Hannibal, who still has a slightly stunned look on his face. He's obviously still riding on that post-fame high. He is absolutely, without a doubt, loving every bit of this. 

“As with having a bullet tear through my body,” Hannibal finishes, mirroring Abigail’s smile. 

Quite a funny little unit they make.

Hannibal regards them both with an expression that Will has trouble defining because he has never seen that look on Hannibal Lecter before. He will definitely safekeep that image for future reveries and hopes he will receive that again. Because it gave Will such a deep warmth, like he’s standing in front of a fireplace. Or he’s actually inside a fireplace. He’s not sure yet. It just feels good. 

Another knock on the door and in steps Jack Crawford in a cream blazer, looking huffy and bothered. He zeroes in on Will after he greets everyone. Then, a dressy Alana Bloom steps in and Abigail jumps to hug her. Alana pecks Will’s good cheek and asks about his bad cheek. Jokes to him being a proper Scarface.

The door isn’t closed yet and Will holds his breath to see what surprise will walk in and he isn’t disappointed because in strolls Miriam Lass, all business-like with black blazer and pants. With both arms intact. She grasps two cellphones in one hand and a large leather-bound notebook in the other.

Will looks at Hannibal, who in turn, is already looking at him with bemusement.

“Hello, gentlemen, happy to see you’re both alive and well,” she says briskly after she gets a half-hug greeting from Abigail. “Now, who should I speak to first about the schedule?”

“I’ll have Will first,” Jack’s deep baritone cuts through the room. He doesn’t wait for an answer and just takes Will’s wheelchair handles and rolls him by the door. Away from everyone’s earshot. He could hear the ladies’ animated chatter around Hannibal’s bed. Can’t help but feel left out that he’s missing out on the banter.

“I still need to know what happened on that cliff.”

This, Will can handle: Jack Crawford being Jack Crawford. For one wild second, he thinks Jack noticed something amiss in Will’s bearings. Maybe Jack is this world’s Heimdall, ready to toss them both back to the ocean the instant he knows they’re fake.

He clears his throat and hopes to God his story will check out. “We were standing by the piano when Dolarhyde shoots Hannibal from behind and—”

“Will,” Jack interrupts, holding out a hand as if to stop him.

Abigail’s laugh tinkles from the other side of the room. Did Hannibal make her laugh? What are they talking about? He wonders if Hannibal is talking about him.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t need your incident statement right now. Miriam’s scheduled that for tomorrow. I need you to tell me that I shouldn’t be worried about your marriage.”

He looks genuinely troubled and this was the one he lost sleep over, not serial-killer murders.

That stops Will right there because Jack Crawford of past world would not look this worried for an Agent’s state of relationship. Especially if relationship accomplished killing a Dragon just fine. Jack didn’t have a spot of bother if Will’s marriage to Molly would crumble after he took the Tooth Fairy Case. That’s Jack’s Crawford’s bottom line: getting the job done. Everything else is just static.

“We’re fine,” Will manages with a half-smile. How can he finish this conversation so he can rejoin Hannibal? He fights himself from looking behind him, just to see what Hannibal’s doing.

“Fine?” Jack grunts and Will knows he said the wrong answer. “Fine is not the word I would describe the most beautiful relationship I’ve ever had the privilege to know, Will. So, I’m right, you were trying to push yourselves off the cliff?”

“We’re just…”?

How does one describe the most beautiful, most electrifying moment of one’s life? He can’t, because Jack is not his intended audience for that.

“You had your arm wrapped around Hannibal’s neck and you were about to tip over. Tell me that’s just you going out for a swim in the Atlantic.”

Jack sounds hurt and child-like, as if he just found out his parents are divorcing.

“Don’t worry about us, Jack.” _Worry instead about the monsters you have let in your house._ “It’s an embrace and we were just overwhelmed by the kill. Kinda like dancing, in a way. Didn’t realize we’re by the edge. So, thanks for saving us.”

It sounds lame as hell and Jack sees it, and just gives him a long look.

“We’ve never been more in love.”

He has to say it and he congratulates himself for not cringing. An uneasy, needling Jack Crawford would be such a pain to deal with. It would go on and on and on. So, he has to shut this down now. But Jack remains quiet. The room is quiet as well.

“Our love is irreversible, Jack. It cannot be undone or reduced. Our love only expands and defies time and space. It’s impossible to measure our love, it is as infinite as the galaxies.”

It’s a crock-full of bullshit and not even he would buy that because that only scratches the surface on what he feels for Hannibal.

It’s like a key is unlocked and Jack’s face softens.

An applause rings out in the room.

“Oh, Dad.”

Jack’s eyes are shiny with tears. “I can’t wait to tell Bella. That was beautiful, Will.”

So, this is how he dies, from utter mortification.

Jack turns him around and Will gazes back at Hannibal and he’s relieved to see that Hannibal doesn’t buy it either. Good. He would have been dead on the spot if he sees Hannibal all weepy and gushy.

Hannibal all weepy and gushy. Now that’s a terrifying thing.

Hannibal regards him with a cold glare and Will soaks in its stoniness. They are both reminded of their days of subterfuge past. It’s a good sign, actually. That Hannibal detests any forms of pretense now, well, pretense in a sense that it’s against each other. If Hannibal finds the lying distasteful, then there is hope that trust in each other can be slowly built.

He continues to just look at Hannibal because that ten-hour long conversation with Jack made him feel quite disjointed and he simply just wants to make sure Hannibal’s there.

Everyone seems to notice their gazing.

Jack claps his hands. “Alright I’ll leave you gentlemen to rest. You’re both heroes. America thanks you for your service. Till the next case. Hannibal, looking forward to your celebratory dinner.”

He leaves and they could still hear Jack talking to the agents outside. Alana soon follows with her departure, tells Will Margot couldn’t make it, she got held up from a meeting in D.C. She scheduled an evening out with Miriam, they can all catch up there 

Will regards Miriam Lass again and she, out of all the people in this world, is the most proof that they could get that convinces them that they are indeed, not in Kansas anymore. Hannibal follows his gaze and nods at Will, clearly sharing the same thought.

“Mr. Graham,” Miriam has a strained bearing, like a rubber band stretched too thin. But she lacks the adrift-at-sea constitution from past Miriam. She opens her massive notebook. Clicks her pen. “You’re not scheduled for class until next Thursday so that’s good, you can have time for rest. And it’s still a no on the interviews, I assume?”

Will nods though she didn’t look at him as he did it. He doesn’t know what the interviews are for but he doesn’t do that on principle anyway so it’s an easy answer.

“Your husband will do the press conference, as usual. We’ll limit it to only three questions so that shouldn’t take long. But you really have to stand by his side when he does it, alright? You can’t wait in the car like last time. Bad optics.”

He nods again. She must have been speaking in Japanese because he did not register anything that she said.

“Your article is up on the New York Times tomorrow. Both of you are front page, same with other news publications.” By her tone, it’s as if they’re front page all the time. She turns to Hannibal, “And oh, Dr. Lecter, your name is on the crossword. Other half, profiler was the clue.”

“That’s quite the honor, Miriam,” comes Hannibal’s reply.

“Dad was there, too,” chimes Abigail, “Cracker, brown.” Abigail giggles. Will forces a smile.

Will notices the familiar gun holster on Miriam’s belt. She’s packing heat. So, she’s an FBI agent who arranges their schedules because they need someone to do that somehow? Well, they’re famous enough to land on the fucking New York Times. He makes a mental note to postpone his ‘freak out’ about that fact later today.

“I’ll send you the syllabus from Quantico. I have back to back classes tomorrow so it’s good that both of you are sequestered here. Your talk in UCLA is still booked. Your Japan trip next month still stands as long as both of you stay unscathed. I will keep reminding you about your scheduled nights out because you both are hopeless with that.”

She shuts the book with a snap. “See you in three days. Hopefully.” They all wave their goodbyes.

Abigail looks at her watch and groans. “Ugh, I really need to hit the books. Visiting hours are almost over. You two need your rest.” She kisses Hannibal on the cheek. “See you tomorrow. Get better. Love you,” she tells him.

“And I, you, darling.” Hannibal replies, eyes shining.

“Your darling’s right there.” She gestures at Will, chuckling. “Unless Dad’s taking over ‘sweetheart’?”

“Your father’s heart would be anything but sweet, my dear. It would take a particular palate to be involved with someone like me.”

“Okay, good, I’m still sweetheart, Dad’s darling and you remain the babe that you are.”

_Thank you, Abigail, for giving out that important piece information. Their pet names._

Also, what the fuck? Hannibal a babe? Hannibal looks like he might split open and spill his bowels then and there. 

She goes to Will and rolls him over to the head of Hannibal’s bed. She locks the wheels of the wheelchair and motions for him to get up.

“What’s happening?” he asks, lost. He frankly still hasn’t recovered from the babe part. He can’t imagine saying it without cringing. That man right there, hard and smooth as stone, would anyone in their right mind dare to call him _babe_?

“You both look dead tired. As much as I want us all to remain here, your recuperation is utmost priority. So, Dad, do your thing with Daddy but be careful, you don’t want to tear out your sutures.” She steps back and releases Will’s feet from the wheelchair’s footplate to the floor.

Will is still drawing blanks.

She throws him an appraising look.

Hannibal, thankfully, gets it. He looks pointedly at Will.

“Rest well, darling. See you tomorrow.”

They lock eyes and the room fizzles to nothing but the two of them, like they are transported to their own chamber. Hannibal offers his hand and as if by a magnetic force, Will takes it, rises and sweeps his lips to Hannibal’s. He feels Hannibal’s lips give a questioning pull to his own, a request to partake more and Will answers with one full-mouthed caress and a peck.

Tomorrow, they should find a way to get rid of all these people. And just talk. 

Will understands now. Couples do parting kisses. Kissing seems to be mandatory in the Graham-Lecter household.

“See you,” Will exhales. Kissing Hannibal feels like electricity meeting water.

“Alright, gentlemen,” Abigail says it gently, from somewhere outside his and Hannibal’s chamber. “Time to rest.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He straightens himself up and he’s already beginning to feel untethered from Hannibal. But he’s thankful she’s there. He doesn’t know what he would have done if he was left alone with Hannibal, feeling the way he feels. She guides Will to his chair, places his feet back to the footplate. She assesses him like a mother checking her child’s face for stains.

When she seemed satisfied, she turns to Hannibal and gave him a final kiss goodbye. No one in this family can stop kissing, apparently.

He gives Hannibal a lame wave and points at Abigail as if to say she’s the boss. 

Hannibal waves back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Will and Hannibal make a boundaries agreement. A universe gotta have rules. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	3. Free If We Want It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Hannibal have a talk to set boundaries in this new world and boy, did it leave Will shookt.

Someone gently nudged him awake. A smiling woman in scrubs is handing him a sleek black phone. “I’m sorry to wake you, Mr. Graham. It’s your husband.”

Will nods a thank you and waits for her to leave.

“Hannibal?”

“Hello, Will.”

“What happened? Is something wrong?” Will sits up and rubs his eyes. Scenarios rush in his head. Is Hannibal calling from prison? From an airport to say his goodbye? Somewhere sautéing the fingers of that intern who touched Will’s hair? 

“Nothing is wrong. I could not wait until morning to talk to you. How is my _darling_?” Hannibal intones darling with a teasing growl.

Will feels the good part of his mouth instantly lift up to a smile and makes a silent thanks to the heavens and hells that he is here. In some warped-up parallel or alternate or alternative- hell if he knows- universe’s version of Baltimore. Woken up by the only version of Hannibal Lecter he knows and hopes to only know. For a second, he thinks of all the possible Hannibals in multiple universes and he shudders. No thank you, one is insufferable enough. 

“I’m doing alright, all things considering. How about you-” He pauses. _Babe_? No, that’s not happening. “Doctor Lecter.” He mimics that breathy doctor looking at Hannibal’s colostomy bag like it’s the Holy Grail. 

Will isn’t sure if the sound on the other end counts as a laugh but he visualizes Hannibal’s lips breaking into a half-smile and his eyes crinkling with the motion. Will leans back to his bed and he is transported inside Hannibal’s psychiatrist office. Will seats himself on Hannibal’s mahogany desk and stretches his legs. Figment Hannibal walks in to join him and Will regards the fit of the blue plaid suit on Hannibal’s frame. It doesn’t fill out his shoulders like it used to, Will thinks. He doesn’t like it, this indication of deprivation on Hannibal’s body. Thinks of telling Hannibal to grow out his hair. Have a feast every single day. Delight in life’s freedoms once more. 

“Quite a world we have both crash-landed into, Will.” Figment Hannibal looks at him with playful ease.

“Is this the place you promised us, Hannibal? Because it’s ridiculous.” 

“If it was, I would have been the first to welcome you. I agree, it is utterly ridiculous and it would seem that it has the right amount of whimsy that I would fashion myself of creating. But my fantasies of world building did not arrive to fantastical heights such as this. Certainly not with such ridiculous people. Save for Abigail, of course.”

“Abigail is a marvel,” Will agrees, feeling the emptiness of his room without her. “When we were standing on the edge, I just felt a surge of electricity like an adrenaline high. Nothing else that would have stood out as out of the ordinary.” 

“I, too, felt that. I thought you had felt something much different, given your gift. There is no dramatic crossing through dimensional tunnels. We simply stood through the change and retained our very spirits and our bodies carried the same scars and wounds to this world.”

“Entropy still exists here,” Will remarks. 

“As it should. Natural laws are the same as the world we left behind. I am partial to the concept of a daughter universe or the many worlds interpretation. That there are possible futures as having a real existence of their own. Abigail suffered the same fate under her father’s hands but it was our versions here who created a separate future for her. A far departure from what fate befell upon her in our original world.”

Will watches a flash of himself bleeding on Hannibal’s kitchen floor as Abigail’s neck opens to Hannibal’s blade with a tiny red speck then a burst then a torrential downpour of her blood. If Hannibal hadn’t been such a complete and colossal nightmare, they would have had a semblance of a life like this.

“But had time reversed,” Hannibal continues, “No matter what timeline, I would still have preferred our life on the run in Europe or a quiet, unfrenzied one in Baltimore. Certainly not this, not with all this attention.”

Will looks at the Figment Hannibal beside him when he says ‘our life’, and knows it to be spoken as truth. Something he doesn’t have to question. He just knows. He gazes at the two olive chairs standing face to face, the pillars caging the maroon walls and the expanse of the upper library and thinks that maybe they can diminish old lies spoken in this room if they voiced new truths. 

“You seemed to enjoy that immensely.” Will smirks and Figment Hannibal smiles in amusement at the memory. “Everyone falling themselves over you. Must be quite a departure from the past three years with only grasping second-raters for company.” Will is not going to stop reminding Hannibal of what he was in past life/world. Lest he let unearned fame get to his head and get ideas that his actions here are inconsequential. 

“Indeed,” Hannibal says, gamely enough. “Yes, that was quite amusing but I do not think I would like that as everyday occurrences. Especially when we have certain mysteries to uphold.”

 _The cannibalizing and murder artistry-performing,_ you mean, Will snaps to Figment Hannibal. He walks around Hannibal’s desk and lines up his pencils and scalpels to avoid Figment Hannibal’s sharp glare. 

“I think we’re going to have more irritations like that.” Will is already getting tired just thinking about it. He muffles a yawn and realizes something. “Wait, Hannibal, have you even slept?”

It’s by the sound of Hannibal’s voice, sort of in the final, wrought-out stages of crashing euphoria. He had probably spent all the hours in the library of his memory palace, trying to place where in the Inferno’s circle of hell had indicated that he’d wake up with a get-out-of-jail-free card. Will doesn’t know how he slept himself. After he’s been spoon-fed on some too-sweet soup by Abigail and had some doctors check on his progress, things had faded to black. He didn’t even have time for his _‘freak out’_. Though he did look anxiously at Abigail’s tiny neck scar the entire time, as if it would open and blood would gush out at any moment.

“I’ve had plenty of time to sleep. Three years-worth as you kindly reminded me,” Figment Hannibal shoots him a stony look. “There is so much to unfold in the world we have found ourselves into.”

“What are your theories?” Will thought he’d leave the theorizing to Hannibal’s vast memory palace, as he humbly calls it.

He hopes, for their sake, that none of the adoring doctors and nurses saw an upright, motionless, machine-like Doctor Lecter staring glassily in the dark while multiple trains of thought bullet throughout the room.

“Quite many,” Hannibal answers all too cheerily. “One is that the world might have been unlocked because of you. You have more leanings in the supernatural more than I. Your empathy is preternatural. That ability to be inside other people’s minds could evolve into becoming a key in unlocking an otherwise inaccessible door to another world.”

“I did this? I have superpowers?” Will was quite surprised Hannibal had thought of him first instead of, well, himself, because Hannibal obviously believes he is God, The Devil and all Greek gods combined. Or maybe he’s adapting quite well to (pretend) married life, finally recognizing that his other half is always most definitely the better half. Either way, it is truly surprising. Caging might have softened the beast afterall.

Will feels a shifting movement on the other end, as if Hannibal is nodding.

Figment Hannibal is standing right in front of him with a gaze that can match the intensity of a desert sun. “If anyone in all the worlds could have superpowers, Will, it would be you.”

Will swallows a lump in his throat. Hannibal said with such deep reverence and conviction and Will feels flushed and full from it so therefore, he must release the heaviness with his usual brand of charm. “Well, uh, thanks for thinking I have an inherence for the extraordinary, Hannibal but I don’t think my janky brain has anything to do with unlocking worlds. I brought my bleeding body over here just like you.” 

“Whatever janky is, you should delete that from your vocabulary. Extraordinary is the only word suitable to describe your mind. The power of your mind does not have any relation to the vulnerability of flesh from blade.”

Wally loves that word and Will finds it funny, so it’s staying.

Will has nothing else to say other than if Hannibal loves his brain so much, why doesn’t he just marry it, but then he did, in this world anyway, so he just asks: “If we take my superpowers out, then it would leave us with time reversal? Your teacup coming together?”

“Teacups and time,” Hannibal rumbles an assent. “I have written equations for time reversal in a moment of need and I demanded God for it. If He has heard me, I am disappointed for the delay, for it had taken three years for it to become whole again.”

There’s an edge of long-held quiet anger in Hannibal’s voice so Will refrains from telling Hannibal that that’s not how praying works. 

“I am grateful for the repair but still, even now, I still wished He had given it to me that very day,” he adds, the tone still present. 

_So that I would not have to hear you tell me how you will not miss me,_ Figment Hannibal tells him. He does not look at Will when he says it.

“On that thought, it lead me to realize that we should not focus on the how but the why.”

“Are you sure you haven’t agreed to some Faustian bargains as of late?”

Will hears a sound that is closest to what he would define as a snort. “No, don’t be absurd, I would have remembered that.”

Hannibal says it like he'd really been waiting for Mephistopheles to visit him in prison and draw out a contract for his infamous bargain. 

“What, then?”

“We have been rewarded.”

“Rewarded? But we’re both horrible people. Our sins should befit the punishment.”

Will feels pricks of irritation building up at the back of his head. 

He clicks his fingers. “Rats! We should be rats in the afterlife. We don’t deserve a human body. We wake up and each of our paws are caught in a heavy steel trap so we’d resort to eating our own furry flesh to escape. Once we do, we crawl to the ground like pathetic worms but we won’t get far, because we’ll get rat cancer and grow festering boils that burst with slimy, gangrenous pus. We wish for death but we don’t die, no, we just fucking lie there and breathe the stench of our decay for fucking eternity. We don’t even deserve to be in any of the circles of hell because we can’t get in because we’re fucking rats!”

Will releases a long breath. He recognizes this as his freak out, his mental dam finally bursting. It’s when his mind or mouth starts babbling either foolish or nightmarish scenarios to prepare him for actual reality, which is, based on previous experience, always a thousand times worse. It’s happening with Hannibal present. Maybe as it should, as husbands are legally bound to listen to their spouse’s deranged sputterings. 

“That is quite a vision you are painting, my darling husband, and I look forward to more horrific visuals of ourselves as revolting creatures. As long as we share the same experience, I would still be a happy rat—albeit a decaying, pustule-ridden one.”

“Of course, you would,” Will remarks wryly. He runs a hand over his face to rub off his tension. Figment Hannibal, who is now seated on the olive chair, throws him a close-mouthed beam. Gestures Will to take a seat and Will does. 

Typical Hannibal, always willing to take anything Will gives him. Always so fucking obsessed in sharing the same space. A normal sane person would recoil at the thought, but not this special one. This one would actually volunteer to be a hideous rat as long as they’re hideous rats together. It would be cute if it wasn’t so psychotic.

_That is why fate and circumstance will always bring you back together._

“It’s terrifying to get everything one wants, Hannibal. The sword will eventually drop.”

He’s man enough to admit to want this, want this world with this terrifying and terrible man and that’s why he’s becoming wary of all the _good_ and he thinks of dragging Hannibal back to the cliff and jumping, as they were meant to do, because that’s the honest truth of their fates, the _bad_ , not this glossy, sugared landscape. 

“No greater love hath man than to lay down his life for a friend.” Hannibal recites and Figment Hannibal hands him the same wine he poured for Will at the cliff house. Will watches him scent, sip and savor his wine.

“It’s quite simple. We have done an act of true and great love and that is why we have been rewarded.”

“What, you said some kind of verse that’s an actual code to unlock a universe and my vessel of empathy is the key that made it click?” Will has heard the word _love_ and it is, of course, an un-broached subject between them so Will is maturely deflecting to it by hiding in sarcasm. Figment Hannibal gives him a look to indicate that he knows exactly what Will is doing. 

“You said it yourself,” Hannibal says calmly, as if refusing to rise to Will’s tone. “That you do not know if you can save yourself. And you accepted it. Self-sacrifice. I performed mine three years ago, when I turned myself in. For you.”

“I killed us both, because I cannot live with you and without you. I admit thinking that I am willing to lose myself so we can fly to a place just for us.” Will hides behind his wine while he says it. 

“And we did. We have a chance to live here and become happy rats.” Hannibal pauses to laugh softly. “And we must be grateful guests and respect its rules. We mustn’t disturb the fabric of order. So, we must follow the one rule that was already written for us.”

“Husbands.” Will answers because of course. Typical Hannibal, again, always finding ways to secure Will’s life to his. As if their soul/spirit/essence weren’t bound and fastened and welded and attached and tethered and melded and fused and merged to each other as is. 

“What are the rules?” Will asks because he knows Hannibal already has the terms mapped out in charts and tables. He wishes he had real wine. 

“Physical boundaries. I understand there will be trepidation on your end, given my history of taking liberties on your person when you were ill or unconscious.”

“There were none. You had no boundaries.” Will helpfully reminds him.

“Yes, I did not,” Hannibal agrees easily enough. “For that, I am sorry.” 

Figment Hannibal loses his wine and looks openly at Will and he sees it as genuine. It shouldn’t be simple but it is.

“Thank you, Hannibal.”

“Thank you, Will.” Hannibal clears his throat. “I do not want us to be uncomfortable so we must set an agreed number of physical displays. As husbands, people would expect us to share affection. Let us start with kissing.”

Will lets out a loud laugh and his bad cheek protests at the motion. “Just heading on straight to there, huh.” He rewinds what he just said and it doesn’t make sense. His brain is short-circuiting just because he heard the word kissing, like a twelve-year-old who doesn’t know what to do when his crush tells him she likes him and wants to kiss him too. 

“No time like the present, darling,” Will’s ridiculous pretend husband says cheekily. Figment Hannibal gives him a wink. “The greeting and farewell kisses are mandatory. That was what Abigail had clearly expected to happen when she says that you have to do your thing with Daddy. Kisses to cheeks and forehead are small so they will not be limited. But there must be spontaneous ones on the lips, in between greetings and farewells, to show a loving front when we have company. What do you say about ten kisses each day?”

“Two.”

“Nine.”

“Three.”

“Nine.”

Will shoots Figment Hannibal a hard look.

“Two.”

“Will,” Hannibal huffs. 

“Fine, I’ll meet you halfway. Five.”

“Good. I would have settled for three.”

They both share a light laugh. If Will smiled any harder, his good cheek would have cracked a fresh cut.

“The kiss should also have a minimum of five seconds. Or more, it depends on you. For authenticity.” 

“Fine.” _For authenticity, my ass,_ Will thinks, _you just want an excuse to kiss me._

Will is beginning to get annoyed that Hannibal is doing this on purpose, back to his old schemes. Saying things like _Daddy_ to intentionally fry his brain so that he would acquiesce to every proposal. 

“Alright. Up next,” Hannibal says, as if he was perusing a file. “Is where our hands should only touch. I, for one, do not mind it so you are free to touch me anywhere. Holding hands is a given. For the rest of your body, you will have to state the limitations so my hands will not venture anywhere untoward.”

Leave it to Hannibal to make Will seem like a withering virgin. “Uh, an arm around my shoulder would be enough, right?”

“Arms around shoulders between two men portray comradery or brotherhood. A hand around the waist indicates sensuality and oneness of mind and body. Tell me, Will, did we come here as brothers?”

“Uh, no, well,” Will sputters because he is already feeling Hannibal’s hand cupping his waist and Hannibal’s closeness to his body and oh, god, the blush is back. “Ok, fine. But nowhere beyond that.”

“Good,” Hannibal hums. “May I touch your hair?”

“Yeah, fine.”

“Thank you, you can do the same, muss up Daddy’s hair.”

Will covers his mouth to stop himself from telling Hannibal to shut the motherfucking fuck up because he might not make it to live to another day if Hannibal keeps searing his brain like this. He remembers teasing Hannibal about it and yep, he is paying for it dearly, as the universe promised. 

“You should grow your hair longer, I do want to muss it up,” Will brain vomits. 

“It’s all what people seem to talk about. Yes, of course, for you.”

They fall silent and Will knows that they are thinking of time. That they might have time to grow something as banal as hair. Time to explore this landscape of unbroken teacups and mystical equations. Or they may have little left, he does not know how the hourglass in this world works. Slow or fast, Will should live it open and honest. He has been handed what he wanted. Morality is not weighing him down, not making him question how he could want someone like Hannibal. He’s not made to choose sides; it was made for him. It was a side that he has desperately wanted to have taken in the original world.

Will and Figment Hannibal share a small smile. 

“So,” Hannibal says, back to business. “Sharing a bed.”

Will is beginning to suspect that this is what Hannibal lost sleep over, not over quantum mechanics and multiverses, but thinking gleefully about all the uncomfortable things he will subject poor little Will Graham to. _But is it really uncomfortable for you_ , he asks himself, _because you seemed to enjoy that first short kiss just fine. And now you will have more._

_Shut up, brain, you’re on fire._

“No one touches anyone because no one is watching.” Will says faintly, like a pale, shrinking violet of a virgin. 

“You can touch me anywhere you please,” Hannibal growls, like a brazen whore. 

Will wants to claw his eyes out and scream. He’s an adult man, he wants to remind himself but he sobers up when he realizes he is not dealing with a regular man but Hannibal fucking Lecter, a man in a psychopathic class all by himself. 

He looks around and sees that Abigail has left him a cup of water and he takes it and sips. He’s never felt so parched in his life.

_God, why fucking me._

“Will,” Hannibal says softly. “Am I being too forward?”

“You think?” Will coughs from the sudden intake of water. 

“You know how I feel about you.” 

“That can change, you know. We share a, uh, fascination with each other but we never even spent twenty-four hours together. Days will repeat. Routines are circulatory. We have never dealt with mundanity. We’re used to extraordinary landscapes. We’ll either get bored or drive each other crazy. Well, we’re already crazy. Crazier.” Batshit crazy, he should have said. 

“You are composed of extraordinariness and everything that you touch will label it so. You are Will Graham. You defy dullness. Imagine being loved by me. Mundanity will have no room in our palace. We will have exquisite joys and exquisite sorrows. The life we wondered if we could ever live, we will have it here. I will make it so, because I lo—"

“Stop right there,” Will stutters as Figment Hannibal’s office blare with red blinking alarm lights. Figment Hannibal’s unwavering gaze catches the lights and they glow harsh and scorching. “You can’t say that, you don’t know what that is.”

Figment Hannibal stands up and, slowly, he grows frighteningly tall. “You will not deny me my right to declare my love to my beloved, Will. I hold my own definition of love and I experienced such love in all its forms. I love with the lightness of folly, with wholeness of being, with wild terror and abandon. You may make light of everything that I do, but not this, not with how I feel about you.”

“You’re right, you have a right. I apologize.” Everything- the declarations, Hannibal’s impassioned tone, ten-feet tall Figment Hannibal’s imposing figure- is unbearably overwhelming and the lights keep hurting his eyes. But even amidst the cacophony of maddening sensations, he is building this very conversation in his memory stream, and my, what a mammoth of a memento it is becoming.

“Alright, say it.” Will grips the phone so tight, he feels his knuckles strain. 

“No.”

It became quiet. Too quiet. Will looks at his phone. The bastard had hung up. Will fumbles on finding the phone icon and redials.

Hannibal makes him wait for five rings before he answers.

“Say it,” Will says, voice rough. “Tell me you love me.”

“I love you.”

Will closes his eyes and the words cover Will’s entire skin. Just like that, Will holds all the cards. Figment Hannibal shrinks until they are the same height. He cups Will’s face, looks at his eyes for one searing moment, bows his head and disappears. 

“I need to know if I can survive you, Hannibal. Because of past behavior.”

“I understand. But know this, I will make you love me.”

“Oh?” Will says, still feeling the tremors of Hannibal’s three words, “Already giving me an ending, are we?”

“We’ve danced long enough, don’t you think? I know it is more than kinship or fascination that you feel about me.”

“Yes, we have and I do but, uh, what I said, I have to protect myself too. We are conjoined, Hannibal, there is no going around that. But, yes, I will be truthful in this world and we will be partners. We will progress from there. Thank you for setting the boundaries and, yeah, I’ll set the tone in the bedroom, ok, when I’m ready.”

He could not sound any more virginal than he could but yeah, this is how one deals with a former boundary-crossing serial-killing, cannibalizing, all-around supreme madman. 

_I love you_

The words jump out from his skin and broadcasts all over the walls of his room. Great. Now he’s the one who won't get any sleep. 

“Thank you and goodnight, Will. We have tomorrow waiting.”

“Goodnight, Hannibal.”

There’s a pause and he knows what he has to say. “It’s been three years. I’ve missed you too.”

Will hangs up. 

Closes his eyes and repeats _we have tomorrow waiting_ over and over in his head until everything fades to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title is Free if You Want It by Nothing but Thieves
> 
> We can be free if we want it  
> Or we can stay in this lane all alone  
> Just say the word and I'm on it  
> The past is receding so we can move on
> 
> I didn't decide  
> I love you despite myself  
> You pulled me out of who I'd been  
> Know what I mean?  
> I'm not a saint  
> I've got nothing to lose  
> Only to gain  
> At least I can dream
> 
> Borrowed lines from Dorian Grey (exquisite joys, exquisite sorrows), Hozier's Talk (imagine being loved by me) and one from It's Always Sunny, you know the one (I just had to do it)
> 
> Hannibal's going too fast but don't worry, there's still plenty of slow burning and angstying to go around 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. Gap in the Clouds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will faces his reality

When his mind registers the voice, he is enveloped with the heavy press of wool on his chest. Scents of dewy lumber, pine and citrus dust the tips of his nose. The sound of boots crunching on gravelly snow and the clink of mugs after a kettle’s whistle fill his ears. A soft hush of breath shivers his neck.

_Come to bed, my sweet man._

Molly.

He flicks the right corner of his mouth and the scratchy material of gauze grazes his tender cheek. There is the familiar feeling of restriction across his torso so he does not need to test his shoulder to reorient himself to his other injury. An IV line is still attached to his hand and so drips the familiar fugue of morphine. He is in the hospital, not in their home, but he feels it all the same. Because her voice always invokes a certain pull of refuge. At times when Will had his mind in brutal, merciless winters, it was her voice that wrapped him a coat, let him inside her warm home, made him sit by the fire.

His room is different, he is now certain of that as he looks at his position. Yesterday’s bed was facing east and today, it faces west and its beddings are grey instead of yesterday’s dark blue. Yesterday’s room had a large window that has a view of the hospital’s adjacent wing. Now he has a smaller one with heavy curtains, with only an inch open to allow the morning light to come through.

The room still has the same set of receiving area furniture and there sits Molly, with one hand cupped over her mouth, another clutching her phone.

“Oh, he’s awake,” she tells the person on the other line. Will doesn’t understand how she knows; he had hardly made a sound. “Talk to you later.”

She tucks her phone in the back pocket of her jeans.

He is back in the world he once lived, isn’t he? His room is different and his wife is here, as she should. Two pieces of logical evidence that will hold strongly in the court of reality.

Very quickly, his mind shuts a large, black-and-gold rococo double door that contains a massive room which holds the memory of a certain name.

“Hey.” Her voice is soft and muffled, like she’s underwater. She walks to the foot of his bed with timid steps, clutching her handbag towards her chest.

“How are you?”

“Hi,” he says back, attempting a half-smile and brushes his hair from his forehead, feeling self-conscious. He really must look terrible, for her to keep such a distance; not even standing by his side, let alone take his hand. To think she hasn’t even seen the torn gash across his cheek yet. Would she distance herself more when she’ll see that? 

The healed mark on his forehead had been endearing to her, at least; naming it a misplaced Harry Potter scar. _Your scar is glowing again_ , she would tell him playfully, whenever she spots him having a particularly knotted expression on his face.

The Door opens to just a sliver and something pings from his memory, something to do with how his forehead got its scar in the first place and he hurriedly snaps it shut.

A single tear falls down his cheek.

“What’s wrong? You’re in pain? Want me to call a nurse?”

“No, I’m fine, Molly.” His voice comes out hoarse and shaken, like he was screaming for a certain Door not to open.

She still does not make a move to come to his side, just gives two pats on his foot, as if it is the most energy she could offer for consolation.

Another tear drops.

She pulls tissues from her bag and hands a couple to him. Then goes back to her position by his feet.

He wipes his entire face and catches her watching him with a somewhat smug expression. Water runs down his nose and he sniffs it back. Wet, messy and riddled with injuries, he must look so attractive right now.

Behind watery lids, he looks at the woman stiffly crossing her arms in front of his bed. She’s wearing a white shirt and a navy blazer he’s never seen on her. The edges of her blonde bangs touch the roundness of her eyes. But her eyes are not round with the softness that he knows, there’s an edge to them now and it’s so unfamiliar, he literally shakes his head to convince himself that what he’s seeing is real. Her distance is self-imposed and her coldness either natural or deliberate.

She didn’t even ask him again about the crying, just takes his word for it and that is that. It’s another foreign thing. Because she would always ask again, even after a dismissal, and she would ask and wait and ask again and would not stop until winter winds would turn into spring breeze.

Then, he recollects of previous events before all this, before Will chose to leave their home and entered the Door and it all comes down to her narrow escape from being changed by the Dragon.

Will should understand now, with this open display of her hostility, that, though she escaped being changed, and though she assured him when he comes back that she would remain the same, a change was still brought about nonetheless.

Because he knows she can take having a bullet tear skin, muscle, and puncture her lung but she cannot accept someone endangering her life and by life, she means her boy, her Wally. So, he should accept this, all of this coldness, her winter. Because he promised to protect their family and he failed.

All because her husband had been running around with the psychopathic crowd.

A tear falls again. A memory is attempting to break free.

Will wraps chains around the Door’s handles, locks it and swallows the key.

“How are you? You look great.” Considering she’s just gotten out of major surgery; she did look like she just had a scratch and went on her way.

“How’s Walter?” he says formally, subdued by her behavior. He dabs his escaped tear and wishes the drops would stop. He’s running out of tissues.

“Thanks. We’re good,” she nods twice. “Walter’s good. Jack told me what happened. So just wanted to stop by, see how you’re doing.”

She looks at him blankly after that. He half-expects her to continue, that maybe she’ll come around after he asked about Walter because short replies were never her thing. She would go into animated retellings of the simplest of scenarios and then turn to long tangents and talk very fast without needing to come up for air.

“It’s great that you stopped by. I’m doing well, thank you,” Will says, and winces at how awkward he sounds. This is his wife of two years, for crying out loud and they both used to present themselves with open faces and smiling eyes and now he doesn’t know how to remedy it. No jokes or attempts at humour come to mind. Bringing up the past would not help, hell, it would open a certain Door. And this feels more like a visitation from an aunt than a wife. Loving wives just don’t stop by. There was never a time in their marriage when he was hospitalized so he does not have any standard for wifely behaviour on husband’s sickbed but she had been excellent in taking care of him when he had a cold

 _Because there was never a reason for you to bleed when you are with her,_ a voice from the other side of the Door whispers.

The Door tries to suggest instances where he does bleed and Will slams his body to close it shut.

He blinks and tears drop.

He shakes his head, mentally and presently; he needs distractions. He focuses on comparing Memory Molly and Present Molly. Yes, he would imagine her to be up to date on his health status, take an emergency leave from work and she would have already been fast friends with his doctors and nurses. Or should would have asked to talk to the attending physician if ever a treatment was not up to par with what she expects for her husband’s care. She would have cuddled up next to him on the bed, calling him her sweet man. Heck, she would have brought Wally and they’d all watch baseball together. Bring spring flowers. Wrap him in his wool blanket. Make the room feel like home.

“You’re welcome,” she replies, tone dry and he is brought back to a distant, indifferent wife. He resists the urge to say _thank you_ again so she’d say you’re welcome and there wouldn’t be any silence. But he lets the silence hang and just stares at a button on her blazer.

“How’s the old man?” she asks, breaking the quiet. A sneer is on her lips. He’s only seen that when she’s mimicking someone else, from her stories of difficult people she encounters at work. Unable to see these new expressions anymore, he looks down and fiddles with his wet tissues.

“Uh, he’s fine,” Will says, surprised with her question. The last he’s seen his father was when they had a sailing and fishing trip, just the three Graham boys. Wally had the best time; he had caught a large black sea bass. Will took a photo of Walter and his catch and it sits framed on his father’s piano. His dad remarked Wally had a natural knack for sea life.

“He asked about you,” Will sees this as a topic of conversation he can latch on to, for him to break the icy stare that is currently being bestowed upon him. There is no wool blanket on his chest now, the material is thin and coarse and his body shivers with the chill. “He wants to take Wally sailing in the summer again.”

His dad always asks about Molly and Walter. When Will phoned him he was getting married to his girlfriend of five months and that he has an instant grandson, his father had released a long sigh of relief and it was one of the few moments that Will heard his father genuinely happy.

Molly’s mouth opens to a gasp, like she can’t believe Will had the gall to tell her, what, to go sailing? They’ve taken three trips without incident. He rubs his eyes, god, he’s so tired. “I can’t believe you would even think that. There is no way in hell I’d let you two go anywhere with Wally.”

If his mouth was in good working condition, it would have dropped to the floor because who is this woman? Molly adores his father. And him her. Has something drastic happened on the one day that he was gone?

The Door rumbles and groans loudly, as if to tell him it has the answer, if only Will would open it. He swallows and holds down the key that’s threatening to rise from his stomach.

Another tear falls.

“Wally likes sailing,” he argues, feeling hot pricks of anger building up with his tears. “The man’s been in the sea more than he’s been on land.”

She looks taken aback, and she pauses for a moment, as if she replayed what Will said and it just doesn’t seem to make sense. She appears to recover because the sneer is on her lips once more. “You don’t know what Wally likes anymore, Will. Both of you are in no condition to go sailing anywhere and even if you were, I would never, in good conscience, let Wally be in the same space as him, no matter how much Wally wants to meet him. You’re sliced up again. And him,” she grates out ‘ _him’_ with full revulsion, “didn’t he just get shot?”

Will was about to retort that his father said sailing in the summer so it’s not like they’ll go sailing immediately but then he heard the last word and he sits straight up; his heart starts hammering wildly in his chest.

“What? My dad got shot? How is he? Why didn’t you tell me right away?”

She snorts, another unfamiliar manifestation of the new Molly. “Is that what you call him now? Boy, you took the old man thing seriously.”

“Molly, I’m serious.” He’s ready to spout angry verbal volleys that he never thought he’d do with Molly. His dad treats her very well. He doesn’t deserve to be spoken about so crudely. “Where did he get shot? Is he okay?”

She didn’t say he’s dead so he pictures his father lying alone in a hospital bed somewhere in New Orleans. He doesn’t have anyone to tend to him. His two-year relationship with his last girlfriend ended a year ago. He doesn’t have any family left but Will.

This marriage has obviously shot to shit anyway, so, after this hospitalization, he might as well make flight arrangements to visit him.

Then come back to Maryland.

 _And throw yourself off a certain cliff?_ The Door whispers from the bottom of its frame.

Molly still isn’t helping; she just looks genuinely confused. “Why the hell are you asking me this? You’re the one who’s with him when things went down. Wish I could have seen that. That would have been so good. Tell me something, why do people like to tear your face off? At least his face remained intact. Probably made sure Dolarhyde didn’t touch that, the vain bastard. I heard he got a new haircut. I bet he’s trying to look younger.”

This was the most that she’s ever talked since she got in his room but nothing was making sense.

“Molly,” he paused, saying her name with every ounce of respect that he could muster. “I get it, you hate me but how can you talk about dad like that? You’d like to have seen him get shot? Jesus Christ, Molly. He loves you like a daughter.”

Her laugh comes out loud, harsh and sour. It has no business in his room. Especially when just last night, certain words filled the air. But he is not in that room where it happened, is he? The Door’s hinges whine and Will pushes back and refuses to let a single memory pass.

One tear falls from each eye.

She splays out her hands. “Whoa, Will, let’s not go that far. I’m his daughter now? I don’t know what sick daddy kink thing you’ve got going on but I’m definitely fucking not here for any of that. Jesus Christ.” She releases an incredulous breath. “It was a mistake coming here. I just wanted to make sure you’re not too alive. I see you’re still the same weird little man everyone seems to know and love. “

“Why are you being this way?” Will says, not caring if he comes off as a pitiful, weepy child. Shit, all his tissues are fully soaked. “He loved you. If you could please just give him respect.”

“Loved me? Now I’m really confused. I’m beginning to think you’re actually referring to your dad. He’s the only Graham I respect.”

And then, something registers to Will. _I heard he got a new haircut._

“Molly.” His voice is shaking so her name comes out as stammer. He clears his throat and voices the next words as loudly and firmly as he can. “Please, tell me who you’re referring to.”

“You know how much I hate saying his name.”

“Please.”

She clutches the bed rail with both hands and leans forward. “Uttering that name is vile, Graham. I could never say it and not feel sick.”

But it was the sweetest thing for Will to say: “Hannibal.”

Tears spill hard and fast and the door opens wide and out comes loud blaring trumpets and the brightest, most radiant light that the sun could ever shine. He lets out a high-pitched laugh as immense relief floods from his body. There is no longer a door for the room, the air, the very earth is filled with him screaming: Hannibal is alive! That deranged, god-forsaken madman who just declared his love for him is alive!

“You were talking about him. Hannibal’s alive. I’m still in the fucking teacup,” he whispers to himself as he laughs and hiccups and cries.

She laughs with him but her laughter is not parallel in sentiment to his. “Oh my god, I can’t believe you thought I was talking about your dad. Your man looks older than your dad, Will. Come on.”

He chose to ignore her jibe. Hannibal doesn’t look that old.

 _Your man_.

It’s surreal to hear it coming out from Molly’s mouth. He lets out a laugh again, not caring if he sounds deranged. He’s as deranged as _his man_ anyway. He’s laughing louder and he hiccups and he feels blood in the inside of his cheek. Just as he should because Will always bleeds when Hannibal is in his sphere.

“He’s alive?” He asks again, more to himself, than to her. Because in the back of the back door, he had slowly been building another door that would have held his grief. He doesn’t know if he could measure that room or that door. Thinks it would be bottomless, endless, an immeasurable void.

It would have been impossible for Will to be alive in their original world and be back to Molly. And it would have been impossible for Hannibal not to be dead.

“Jesus, Will, why do you think I’d know that? I don’t go around visiting my ex-husband’s husband. Last I heard he’s alive somewhere here. I’m surprised you’re not in the same room by now. Just as well, I wouldn’t have visited you if you were.”

Hannibal is his husband. He smiles and laughs, wide and the skin is torn again. She doesn’t hide the look of revulsion on her face.

“We’re divorced?”

“Happily.”

“You’re married?” he asks dumbly. He just assumed that the wedding band she wore on her finger was as his wife.

“Happily. You know that.” She lets out an impatient sigh. “I have to go. You call a nurse and let him take you to your daddy. And why are you crying? Did you really think he’s dead?”

“No. Just overwhelmed.” He wipes his face with his blanket.

 _Daddy_. That goddamned word again. It should be outlawed. No wonder she said strange things like daddy kinks and became understandably disgusted since they were making her their daughter in some perverted sexual role play. His old man as Hannibal. Ha! He wonders if Hannibal would find it funny. He can find out easily because he’s in the next room, breathing and alive!

“Huh, thought you’d get used to all the action by now. I would cry too, if someone knifed up my face like that. I bet your old man would still be into that, though, his prized darling all battle-scarred. Tattlecrime has the blow-by-blow. Man, that Dolarhyde fought like a machine. I liked two things in that fight: one is when a certain someone got shot in the bowels and two, y’all just used one knife to stab each other. That was cool.”

“Glad we could entertain you.” He doesn’t like how his and Hannibal’s fight with the Dragon has been reduced to a ‘cool fight scene’ like it wasn’t more intimate than sex. It had been more victorious than birth and more magnificent than death. They should have burned that cliff so only Will, Hannibal, the Dragon and God bore witness to its splendor. It shouldn’t exist in people’s minds where it’s played as common fodder and theatre. He wonders if Hannibal feels the same.

Molly hasn’t encountered Dolarhyde in this world. Instead, she sees him as some kind of movie villain to their heroes. She’s probably rooting for Dolarhyde to win, too. He’s glad she’s spared from that, even if she’s being such an asshole here. It makes sense, because she’s an ex-wife, there wasn’t any reason for the Dragon to go after her, she wasn’t Will’s family anymore.

“Yeah, but, to be honest, I was rooting for the other guy.” She gives him a smile, a real one this time.

He raises his hand for her to take it and she walks to him and she does.

“I’m sorry. Thank you, Molly for everything,” he whispered. _My sweet woman_

He makes a gesture to indicate he’s getting down. She lowers the bedrails and helps Will swing his legs. Once his bare feet are planted on the floor, he swings his good arm over her shoulder. The scent of pine and citrus clings to him. She stiffens but then brings her arms around him and pats his back. He’s saying his silent thanks to this Molly and the Molly before her. They have given him a home and accepted him fully. Called him sweet. Made him laugh. Never asked him for anything he wasn’t willing to give. Her place in his memory stream may not have been as vast as Hannibal’s but it has earned a rightful, indelible place, warm and filled with more laughter than his’.

She laughs and it carries to dissolve the heaviness in the air. His vessel tells him she has forgiven him a long time ago. She just… She just hates Hannibal. That’s quite a first in a world where people probably have posters of Hannibal in their bedrooms.

“There, there,” she shushes, her hair tickles his ears and he’ll miss this too. “We’re good, you know that… It’s just…”

“You hate him,” Will finishes for her.

“Yeah, I’m still there. And I still hate you a little too. You’d think three years after I would have been okay with it. I’ve got good people behind me, Neal, Wally, so I’m great. It’s just that- “she stoops down so she could be eye level with him. Her voice drops to a whisper as if revealing a secret. “I still feel the darkness in him, you know. I told you this. I hope things are good with you, for your sake, at least. And you’ll tell me if there’s any weird stuff going on with him, any red flags or if he secretly eats people. You take Abigail and go to Jack.”

There’s no other possible way for Will to react but to laugh. And be impressed. But really, it’s shouldn’t be surprising. Molly’s the most perceptive and astute woman he’s ever met. Able to catch anyone on their bullshit a mile away. He often wondered if she had been among the people in Hannibal’s circle like he, Jack and Alana were, she would have caught on with Hannibal’s schemes early on. Even here, she actually saw behind the mask of a seemingly magnanimous version of Hannibal. She’s not susceptible to his charms. Or maybe that’s just because Hannibal might have been the homewrecker in the situation.

He flashes her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry about me, Molly. Yes, he can be quite eccentric and his name does rhyme with cannibal.”

“I know, right? Why is nobody seeing that?” Molly interrupts, smiling wide. “At least my name stands for a good time.”

Will laughs and this laugh of his feels familiar and for a brief moment, he’s back in their snow-dusted cabin, sipping hot cocoa in one mug. Then, he crashes down to this reality and he knows that he can’t sip hot cocoa anymore. “But I know what I’m in for. I know and understand that darkness.”

“So, you’re saying you feel it to? You’ve always dismissed it before.”

“I do. I have it too, Molly,” he says quietly.

“I know. But I feel that he makes it even darker for you, harder to see the light.”

“I could say it’s just dimmed. I can still navigate my way through it. Harnessed it, kept it at bay and release when I need it. Like when we fought Dolarhyde.”

She shrugs, like she’s had the same conversation with him about this before.

“Okay. Yeah, I can’t just brush that feeling off. Just always remember what I told you. I still hope I’m wrong.”

Will sees it’s more than just a feeling for her. It’s a personal conviction. Nothing could change her mind and he respects her for that. If Hannibal hadn’t been so deeply rooted into him, he would have joined her in this conviction, new or old world.

“Even if he turned out to be a cannibal, Molly, I know he likes me enough not to eat me.”

She grimaces, and groans, scrunching up her nose in the process and it’s adorable. “God, Will, do not invite those images to my brain. It’s bad enough that you two are everywhere and I accidentally see NSFW fan art of you two. I don’t need you confirming it and making it too real.”

She makes a show of doing an exaggerated shudder.

Will doesn’t know what most of those meant but he just savors this moment as much as he can. He’s glad that she could be light with him again. Seeing her being cold and callous really broke his heart, even if it’s another version and the coldness is warranted. The Will before him had dismissed Molly’s notions about Hannibal. At least here, he made her feel validated. Because, really, it’s true, Hannibal really is, to borrow one of Wally’s funny expressions, a dead-ass legit whackadoo.

“I’m sorry,” Will says again. He’s saying past and future sorrys and hopes Hannibal would never have anything to do with her ever again. The media coverage, she can’t avoid but he will do everything he can to keep her from encountering the genuine article. 

“Yeah, don’t be, really. I had a feeling, deep down, on that day when you told me you met your co-consultant slash psychiatrist for the first time. It’s a strange feeling, like he touched you there--“

“Where?” Will interrupts, red-faced and high-pitched because he wants to stop talking about sex stuff with his ex-wife as early as he can.

“Not there, you bonehead.” She flicks his good cheek. “You promised there weren’t any funny business before the divorce. That still holds, right?”

Will nods, because it would be morally typical of him to honor that. Make sure there wasn’t really a physical affair when the emotional, well, that can’t be helped, especially with an imagination like his.

“Your freaking heart, William. Like he cracked open your chest, opened all four chambers of your heart and etched his name on all of them and made them beat, just for him. You had that look on your face that you’ve been irrevocably changed and that was the day the Lord has made the Profiler Husbands and the world has rejoiced and been glad in it ever since.” She raises her hands as if to sing a halleluiah.

He wants to hug her again because she’s back and as vibrant as the blooms of spring. Profiler Husbands, so that’s what they’re called. It’s a mouthful but he’ll take it, it’s a good cover. For him, Murder Husbands still has a nicer ring. Especially since the other half did more murdering than profiling.

“So, I was a goner, as Wally would say,” he takes hold of her hands and clutches them tighter. He’ll miss this softness, these gentle hands that never bore ill-will.

“Total goner,” she grins. “Oh, speaking of, you’ll make it to Wally’s party on Saturday, right? Miriam RSVP’d. He and his friends are so excited. Some of his old classmates were pissed they weren’t invited. Wally had to choose who’s naughty or nice like he’s freaking Santa Claus. It’s a whole thing.”

“So, I’m to be the clown in this party.”

“You know it.”

“I’ll bring my costume.”

“Counting on it.” She fiddles with his thumb. Clears her throat nervously. “Sorry, uh, still a no on you-know-who. Neal is iffy about it, too. Wally loves you so no one can do anything about that. He wants to meet- you know- because he’s painted as a superhero in public, but yeah, sorry, it’s a pass from the parents.”

Who does this Neal think he is? Disapproving his husband like he didn’t just save the world? What’s Neal done to ensure the safety of America?

“Yeah, it’s fine. He probably has some hoity-toity opera board gala scheduled that day anyway. So, everything good with Nee- your husband?”

If she can’t say his husband’s name, so won’t he.

“It’s great, everything is awesome. Like he’s the one meant to touch the inside of my heart too.”

It sounds unconvincing. Only two people should have names etched inside chambers of hearts and that’s his and Hannibal’s, even if it’s a metaphor originally used by Molly. They experienced it first so it’s theirs. A prickle of irritation builds at the back of his head and he pushes it away. He doesn’t like anyone touching his and Hannibal’s thing. They’re theirs, the most extra special of all things. They even crossed worlds to prove that.

“Happy to hear that. He’s treating you well?”

Will shouldn’t feel jealous but it’s there. That some guy might be doing a better job of being a husband and father than Will. A tiny part of him thinks, quite arrogantly that that might not be true. That guy might always be in Will’s shadow, what with all this apparent celebrity he holds. Children clamoring to be invited to a party because a kid’s middle-aged ex-stepfather will be there? He’d be so insecure, he’d probably keep whining, Will this, Will that, what’s he done to keep America safe, lately? A lot, Will would say, America has one less Dragon to worry about because of us. You’re welcome.

“He’s the best!” Molly says, a little too perkily. “He’s great with Wally.”

“You let me know, too, if he secretly eats people too, won’t you? Apply the same courtesy?”

“His name rhymes with veal, Will, I think we’re safe. But yeah, thanks, well, I hope not but I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Thank you for visiting and sorry, for, uh the misunderstanding before. I was still fogged up from the morphine.”

She rolls her eyes and rewards him with a brilliant smile. “That was hilarious. Say hi to your real dad for me. Too bad he and Cheryl couldn’t make it to Wally’s birthday but a Royal Caribbean Cruise sounds a hundred percent better than some germy kid’s party anyway.”

Will smiles, thanks her silently for finally answering how his dad is, in this world. He’s doing alright, by the looks of it. He hopes his dad is faring better in his past world. Cheryl had been the name of his girlfriend too. His life must be miserable. His only son might have disappeared, or lost at sea or became FBI’s Most Wanted. God, he really hopes his real dad finds a good girlfriend soon because he’s been given such bad luck in the son department.

“Yeah, I will. He misses Wally.”

They hear a ping and Molly releases Will’s hands and takes out her phone. She gives out a groan. “Oh shit, I forgot about our bet.”

Will just watches her flick through her phone. It might have nothing to do with him, anyway. He now feels that his Molly is no longer his. New World’s Molly has a separate life now, with plans that don’t involve him and with people he doesn’t know.

“Ok, so Johnny, you know Johnny, tells me that twenty bucks says I’d be too chicken to even look at Ha—your husband even for just a moment. He has the biggest crush, gag, and he wants me to check out his hair and he knows I can’t do it because obviously that guy gives me the creeps. No offense.”

“None taken—No, Molly, no, you don’t need to do that. There’s nothing special about that hair. It’s a prison-prescribed haircut, every inmate in Maryland Penitentiary has it. You don’t need to see that. I’ll give you twenty bucks right now.” He doesn’t know if he has money but he just says it to stop her.

Hannibal has never seen her, as far as he knows. He knows her name because Will told him out of pettiness. But her face, if he sees her face, she’d be open to his predation and his obsession for Will to have one family and one family alone: his. 

“I think I’m feeling brave today,” she declares, obviously not listening to him. “I lost all previous bets; I thinks it’s time I finally face him again. Even just for a few seconds. So, I’ll call Johnny, and you’d have to confirm that I saw him, ok? He’s still pissed at us that it’s only you who got invited to Wally’s party and I want to piss him off some more. So please, come on, Will.”

And Will is quickly wearing shoes and is being half-dragged out the door, with is IV pole in tow. Molly can be very fast. 

“Oh, hello. Mrs. Frank,” a smiling nurse blocks their path. “You’re taking the patient to his husband?”

“Yes, I am,” she answers, on a cheery high note. No one should be this happy to see Hannibal Lecter, no one. Not even his own husband.

“We have to apologize to Agent Graham for moving him to this room.” She looks at Will. “We were very careful not to wake you during the transfer and we have been successful, you slept very soundly. Freddie Lounds was taking pictures from the wing across your window, so we had to move you. So, if you could follow me, I’ll take you to him.”

Will says his thank you and says no to a wheelchair. He laughs internally for this comedy of errors that was part of what made him believe he was back to where he came from. The pieces were moved perfectly. From, of course, the ever-meddling Freddie Lounds that caused to move rooms and Molly just had to be the first person he sees.

What a funny, funny world. If only Will was a funny guy.

People all don smiling faces and shiny eyes as they pass them by like they’re in a little parade. They smile at Molly too like they all know of her. He smiles and nods back, even waves to an elderly woman who’s waving so enthusiastically at him.

“Hello, Agent Steven,” Molly greets the only unsmiling man in the area, manning Hannibal’s door. He says good morning to them both.

Molly dials Johnny. Yeah, he knows this Johnny from another world, he’s Molly’s very vivacious gay friend and Will understands how Molly has this sudden burst of energy because Johnny is composed of pure, radiating energy. It’s infectious. Will is fond of him, too, he’d made him laugh so hard he had side splints. He’d also overheard him refer to Hannibal (in the old world, as they were looking at Tattlecrime and they thought Will couldn’t hear them from the front porch) as, and he quotes, ‘a fine piece of ass in a scary and trembly kind of way that even if you know it’s your last day on earth, you’d still want to see it through, because you know there’s a beast that can rail your fucking brains out underneath all that grandma’s upholstery three-piece suits.’ Then he begins talking about uncut _stuff_ so Will had to run for the hills, well, to his dogs, in case they got lost. He and Molly were initially fascinated with Will’s saga with his serial-killer friend. Molly had later apologized to Will and then there was no talk about Hannibal after that.

All he’s saying that if Johnny has a thing for Hannibal in the old world, it checks out that he’s gonna have a thing for him here too.

Johnny’s face is on Molly’s screen now, on Facetime and he’s talking 100 miles per second. “Hi William, so do you think our girl would chicken out? Please convince her, I could use the twenty bucks.”

“Hello, Johnny, you shouldn’t have done that.” Because really, honestly shouldn’t, they don’t know who they’re dealing with. Will knows needs to iron this out. Convince Hannibal they’re harmless. As harmless as that haircut because, god damn it, what is the fucking deal? Will has far more luxurious locks, if they were to compare hair length and quality.

It’s just morning and Will is already tired. Need to get everything over with so he can rest too. So, he opens the door and sees Hannibal rousing from sleep. He sits straight up upon seeing Will and gives him a small smile that glints his eyes and oh, god, Will _remembers_. Last night, Hannibal’s declarations over the phone and they are now front and center in Will’s mind, and it overlapped this morning’s shenanigans. Speaking of which. One last thing and he can go back to their own chamber.

He looks over at Molly, who was still deliberating with Johnny. But he sees there’s no stopping her. She nods when she sees Will and steps into the room.

“Hello, Doctor Lecter, just wanted to stop by, see how both of you are doing.” And Will watches her eyes widen in horror at Hannibal’s solid, open hostile expression.

“Hello Molly, happy to see you again. Thank you for the visit.”

“Fuck,” he hears her mutter under her breath, “he looks like he still wants to fucking kill me.”

You think?

Johnny was asking so many questions on Molly’s hand that he holds the phone up and faces it to Hannibal.

“Say hello to Johnny, he’s a big fan.”

“Hello, Johnny,” Hannibal says but his eyes only flicker to the phone for a brief moment before going back to Molly. They’re both staring at each other. Fuck, they’re both so fucked. Johnny’s scream pierces the air and it startles Molly. She looks down.

“Ok, bye. Get better.”

“Thank you.”

Molly walks out the door and it’s as if she feels safe again. She shakes her hands and Johnny shakes with her. “God, that was so intense. Shit, Will, how do you stand that? Does he stare at you like that every single day?”

Will thinks it through. “Yeah, pretty much.”

“It’s different for you, of course. Is it me or is he thinking of multiple ways to end me?”

He looks at Hannibal. Yup. The most recent one is him choking her with his IV tubing.

“Of course not,” Will lies because what else can he say. “Alright, see you both on Saturday.”

“See you,” Molly says, clearly still shaken from Hannibal’s multiple imaginary killings. Great, now she’s a murder tableau where she’s inside an ice coffin with large, frozen blue flowers outlining her shape. Looks pretty good, actually.

He catches Johnny saying “he’s so fucking hot, you are so fucking lucky you get to hit that, William…” before he slams the door.

“Good morning,” he smiles and Hannibal mirrors with his own small smile. Slowly, he walks over to Hannibal’s bed.

“Good morning, Will, have you been crying?”

He hasn’t had a chance to look at himself but he feels puffy around the eyes so it might be obvious, certainly for Hannibal who always catches even the minutest of Will’s expressions.

“I have, yes.”

With one hand, he works on putting Hannibal’s side rail down and he succeeds. Raises the headboard just a bit. He sits down and Hannibal shifts to make room for him. He couldn’t move on his own because his right shoulder still remains immobile so Hannibal holds his waist for balance and Will quickly lifts his legs up the bed. Hannibal removes his hold on Will’s waist. They both sigh as they settle, shoulder to shoulder.

“I would like you to know that I no longer have a colostomy bag and a catheter.”

Will nods and smiles, finds it endearing that Hannibal doesn’t want him to think he’s attached to disgusting tubes.

“So, why have you been crying? You have missed her?” There is danger underneath that innocent query and Will reminds himself that he must always be attentive enough to recognize it.

“I thought I was back in the other world and that I lost you,” he says it as quietly as he can, so the beast can follow suit.

Hannibal shifts to look at him. He always seems to always want to look at him. “You have a lovely wife.”

He knows Hannibal is catching a reaction. Will gives nothing away. “We’re divorced here.”

“I know. And I married Bedelia.” Hannibal’s tone is delivered to be intentionally haughty and smug and made to get a rise out of Will and man, did it work.

“What?” And he is flooded with images of her and Hannibal at his Baltimore home, being picture-perfect domestic, if he could ever imagine Bedelia having a semblance of domesticity. He’d always thought she runs purely on whisky and men’s tears. Wedding, did they have a grand wedding? He thinks of how devastatingly perfect they would look as bride and groom. Quiet dinners in Hannibal’s dining room, him feeding her snails. Then, them on their bed. It’s fucking Florence all over again where Bedelia is rubbing ‘my husband’ directly to Will’s face.

“Are you imagining Bedelia and I being intimate, Will?”

“Don’t be crude, Hannibal,” It came out as a whimper because he was there thinking how it would look like with her small, lithe body to his, well, body.

“Kiss your husband hello, darling.”

And Will does, as he starts his countdown of five seconds. Grabs that shorn, prison hair and ONE with a closed mouth, TWO to part the mouth open,THREE to slip in a tip of his tongue, and it elicits a deep rumble from his beast, FOUR to capture the upper lip’s bow and FIVE, a final swipe with a light brush of teeth on full lower lip.

It looks like Will has the last laugh because, in spite of Hannibal’s obvious attempt to rile him up with a mention of Bedelia, Hannibal is the one having a full-on seizure.

Will leans back, satisfied. Take that, for saying Bedelia and I in the same sentence.

“Well,” Hannibal recovers after what seems like an hour and leans back alongside Will. He releases a series of short, quiet sighs, as if to not make it obvious that he’s thoroughly affected.

Maybe Hannibal would forget about Molly or maybe it’s stored in the back burner where he keeps all his work in progress murder schemes. He feels Hannibal’s multiple questions in his head but Will’s feeling the dredges of exhaustion. There’d be a scheduled statement for the Dolarhyde case, Abigail would certainly come back and who knows who will surprise them.

“Can we rest first?” His eyes are already closed.

“Yes, I will rest as well.”

“See you.”

“See you, Will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Hope you enjoyed it.


	5. Glassy Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They begin to see how famous they really are. 
> 
> Plus:  
> Hospital room fluff  
> Hannibal's undead girls freak out

Will’s mouth tilts up to a smile but keeps his eyes closed even though he’s up. He hears voices, turned low to little whispers and he smiles wider because they are exactly the ones he wants to hear when he wakes.

“But Daddy, I don’t think we’ll be able to reschedule. He’ll be calling from Munich and they’re six hours ahead.”

“Your father needs his rest,” comes Daddy’s hushed reply and Will feels a hand rest lightly on top of his. “They will wait for another hour.”

Will’s internal clock speculates the time as late morning or even noon. He peeks through his eyelids and the lights are dimmed. Not wanting to interrupt this father-daughter conversation, he slowly drops his smile and relaxes his face. Feign sleep.

“Miriam said that’s when they’re scheduled to have their pictures taken, where they all line up and stand in front of cameras. That’s why it has to be right now.” Abigail seems to be speaking from Hannibal’s side of the bed and her voice is muffled, like she has a hand cupped over the side of her mouth.

“If they are able to stand for an hour for pictures, they can certainly wait for him to make a five-minute call.”

“We are seriously going to give Miriam a coronary. You know how she is about schedules.”

“The world will have to wait, Abigail. Your dad has had a tiring morning.”

“Alright, I’ll text Miriam. She is so gonna flip!”

“Let her.”

“Oh my god, there are so many numbers! It’s them!”

“Then do not answer.”

“Alright, I won’t.” There’s a silence and Will pictures them both just looking at the quietly ringing phone. “Ok, whew, it stopped.”

“Good. Now that’s done, please turn that off.”

“They’re calling again!”

“Then, as I have said, turn it off. And please lower your voice.”

“I can’t keep holding off the President, Daddy!”

“The President?” Will jolts straight up and the blanket that covered him falls to his lap. “The _the_ President?”

Before his nap, he was anticipating a surprise visit from a person they know, maybe someone ridiculous like Chilton or maybe an out-of-prison Abel Gideon. Anything is a possibility. But this world continues to be surprising. How famous are their versions here? Famous enough, apparently, for them to actually have an audience with their President.

Hannibal tsks and removes his hand quickly from Will’s. “Now you’ve done it, Abigail. You’ve woken up your father.”

“I’m sorry, Dad,” her blue eyes shine wide from the phone’s screen light, apologetic and a little manic. “But this is freaking me out. So, ok, now that Dad’s awake, we really have to take it.”

“Oh, very well,” Hannibal says as if he is greatly inconvenienced. He turns to Will. “I apologize for waking you.”

“That’s alright.” He rubs his temples and feels Hannibal’s full and utmost attention and they enter their velvet-walled chamber and the fire in Hannibal’s gaze warms him more than the blanket. “Hell of a thing to wake up to. Is the President really going to talk to us?”

“Did you have a fitful rest, Will?” Hannibal asks quite seriously, as if that’s the more pressing issue.

Will looks at him and nods. “I did, thanks. No weird dreams. Just good sleep. How about you?”

Hannibal smiles and lets out a silent laugh as if happy and amused with the answer even if there’s nothing interesting about it and Will remembers the first time they met, in Jack’s office, when Hannibal showed this exact smile when Will was grating about the hassles of eye contact.

“I am glad. Yes, I also rested well.” Hannibal lifts his thumb to Will’s face then when Will doesn’t react, he grazes it slowly to Will’s jaw, just under the bandage of his scar. “They have shaved all of your facial hair here, for the surgery.”

“That so?” Will’s hand bumps with Hannibal’s fingers as he gets a feel of a day-old stubble on his skin. “You think I should shave it all, to balance it out?” He looks at Hannibal’s chin and touches it lightly. The spatter of white, blond and black wisps highlights Hannibal’s lips and contours the jut of his chin and the slope of his jaw. Will wants to trace them with the pad of his thumb and see if the hairs are rough enough to leave a mark. “You got a bit of a stubble yourself. Maybe you should grow it out.”

“Absolutely not,” Hannibal haughtily lifts his chin up and Will likes how his upper lip twitches with opposition. “I would look ancient and you more youthful.”

Will snickers in agreement. It would definitely age him less and Hannibal more. He pictures both of them walking to crime scenes and Hannibal carrying an air of venerable competence, rubbing his salt-and-pepper beard while spouting poetic analogies of a killer’s intentions. Not a bad look on him, if he might say so himself.

“Would still be dashing.” Will says quietly from the base of his throat. He doesn’t have any other word at the moment but that. Hannibal’s cheeks employ that manly blushing that this world seems to bring out from them and that blush, in addition to the boyish streak on his eyes, is the very opposite of ancient.

And then, they just gaze at each other’s well-rested, stubbled faces.

“Dads!” Abigail’s worried voice rings out as she turns on the lights. She’s holding her phone like a hot potato. “It’s still ringing! You have to answer it!”

“Aren’t you going to greet your father hello?”

Abigail’s pretty face freezes at Hannibal’s cold tone and then rushes to Will’s side. Kisses his cheek. “Hello, Dad.”

“Hello, Abigail. How was your exam?”

“It’s good, actually. I think I did well.”

“That’s good to hear.”

Then, from Hannibal’s side, there’s a soft brush of fingers on Will’s hair. Warm lips briefly touch his temple. An intake of air as his hair is being scented. Will feels savored, like he’s a good wine after a tiring day.

Will looks at him and raises an eyebrow.

“This is allowed, part of the agreement,” comes Hannibal’s all too-ready answer.

“Please Dad, answer it, it never stops ringing.” She holds out the phone to Will because she probably thinks she’s not getting anywhere with Hannibal, what with his obvious preoccupation with Will and Will alone.

Will holds out his hand but Hannibal takes his wrist and folds his hand into his.

“Then answer it, Abigail,” Hannibal commands in a tone that startles both Will and Abigail. Will feels a stirring from somewhere down in his body because that tone is something else. He moves his body straighter, as if to stand to attention. 

“You are a grown woman,” that tone continues with a timbre of magnetic authority. Will feels tingles going around his head, like static halos bursting in sparks. Hannibal seemed larger, like he filled out every inch of the room and no one else can move unless he commands it so. “Perfectly capable of conversing with world leaders. You will answer and state your name with confidence.”

“Yes, Daddy,” she answers in a small voice.

“You are Abigail Graham and you will carry that name with pride. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Daddy,” She nods and this reply is firmer and self-assured. Will feels warmed at the thought that someone should be proud to carry his name and that Hannibal sees it as the highest honor of all.

“Good.”

Even this one word, delivered with such sheer power, sent a rumbling to Will’s spine and it makes him imagine what Hannibal would be like if he adopts this tone when they are on a certain furniture designed for sleeping and other activities.

Then, he remembers Bedelia and thinks they probably role-played with Hannibal as a General coming home from the War and her taking on a 1950s baby doll voice and they’d use ropes and lace and there’s spanking involved because someone disobeyed Daddy and now Will is pissed.

He glares at Hannibal, who takes it as thinking Will doesn’t want his hand being held so Hannibal quickly releases Will’s hand.

Will huffs. Leave it to Bedelia to ruin the mood.

Abigail clears her throat. Clicks the green button and chooses the speaker phone option. “Hello, this is Abigail Graham.”

“Good morning, Abigail Graham,” a woman’s clipped voice answers, “Are you, Doctor Lecter and Agent Graham ready to take the call?”

“Good morning, yes, we’re ready.”

“Thank you. Please hold for the President.”

“Hello, am I speaking to Abigail?”

Will didn’t have time to ask Hannibal who the President is but he’d recognize that voice anywhere. It is the same President from the old world. He’s seen enough morning news and late-night shows to know. He can even do a decent imitation of him and it made Molly laugh so hard, she spurted out her tea.

“Yes, this is Abigail Graham,” She looks at Hannibal, who was looking at her like a Professor evaluating a recitation and adds: “Mister President.”

“I hear you’re quite the promising young lady. Top of your class in Johns Hopkins’. Of course, having brilliant fathers such as yours, I’d expect nothing less.”

“One would think that, Sir, but they don’t really help me with homework. I’m not enjoying any perks.”

The man on the other line laughs. “The importance of self-industry. That’s what I teach my girls, too. They would love to meet you and they hope you’d finally attend one of our balls.”

“I’d love to meet them, too. Someday, when, med’s school is not in the way.”

“I will let them know. It was lovely to talk to you, Abigail.”

“It was great to talk to you too, Mister President.”

Abigail and Will look at Hannibal. He gives a single nod of approval and she heaves her shoulders in relief. Will gives her a small, _proud of you_ smile and she beams shyly.

“Now, where are my champs?”

“Good morning, President Thompson.” Hannibal’s accent tilts up even higher and his o’s sound more polished and refined.

Show off.

“Good morning,” Will adds, in a flat, nonchalant tone, just to be contrary.

“How are you doing today, boys?”

“We are recovering well, Mister President, thank you for asking.”

“That was one heck of a fight. Now, when I heard the news that you got the Dragon, I said to my aides, there’s got to be a video. And, lo and behold, Crawford sent me one the next day. Have you boys seen it?”

“I’m afraid we haven’t had a chance to see it.”

“Impressive moves there, Doctor Lecter. Most men our age couldn’t pounce like that without breaking a hip, let alone do that after getting shot. I certainly couldn’t.”

Will catches Hannibal wince at the mention of age and being associated with feeble-boned men. He knew he wouldn’t regret voting for this President if only to see Hannibal in such a state of helpless courtesy. It’s priceless. What’s funny about it is, no matter how irksome the remarks come, Hannibal can’t eat him or turn him into presidential murder art because he’s The President.

“I am merely keeping up with my husband.”

Will still holds the same sentiment regarding their fight with the Dragon. That he wishes no one had seen or heard about it. Now it’s treated like it’s a Las Vegas main event boxing match. And there’s a video? He runs over the events. There wouldn’t be time for Dolarhyde to set up his creepy video camera to have a vantage point of the cliff because he was busy stabbing Will outside so it must be the other psycho in the house who positioned it.

He glares at Hannibal again and the other man reacts to it by looking at his hands, as if checking if they have wandered towards Will without him noticing.

“You got a warrior for a husband, that’s for sure. And Agent Graham, love how you just pulled that knife from your face, blood gushing out then you just strike him with it. How many times were you stabbed?”

“Twice, Sir. He also struck me on the shoulder.”

“That’s right. And you had to pull that out too, to save your husband because Dolarhyde threw Doctor Lecter like a rag doll. He was quite a worthy opponent for you two, gave it as good as he got. And Graham, the Secret Service were very impressed, you used the same wounded arm to yield your knife like nothing happened to it.”

“I aim better with my right arm. Every strike had to be efficient, Sir.”

“And it was. You both took turns giving it to him. Doctor Lecter with his axe and you with your knife. Then the final act, when Doctor Lecter attacked from behind, what did you do, Doctor Lecter? People were saying you had a weapon but I said you bit a chunk of his throat.”

“You were correct, Sir.”

“It was dark but I didn’t see you spit it out. That was quite a mouthful of flesh, there was so much blood.” 

“I did, Sir. It was just too dark to see.”

Will knows in his bones that Hannibal absolutely, 100 percent swallowed it. Sees it reflected in Hannibal’s eyes, that he consumed the flesh and blood because it is akin to taking Communion. And he might have regretted there wasn’t enough time to chew and savor it. Will feels a bit fond, for some reason. His man really is a legitimate whackadoo.

“Alice said it was like you were both performing slaying ballet or something. And you made your First Lady cry, boys, when she saw you both embracing by the cliff. We all watched it on the plane. Everyone was clapping in the end. Great stuff.”

“Thank you, sir,” Hannibal says. Will mirrors a thank you. They both look at each other with amused expressions.

The President of the United States is calling them just so he could get a first-hand account of their fight. 

“So, how about that parade, huh? Are you finally going to do it?”

“It would still not be ideal, Mister President.”

Will nods in agreement at Hannibal’s quick answer. That would be the most horrible thing to happen to Will, on a parade waving and being lauded when they both still deserve to be rats. People here are a study of contrasts, for sure. One side is the heart-eyed, so in love with the idea of their love and the other one is the absolute delight of them annihilating a mentally-ill man.

“I wish I didn’t give you the Presidential Medal of Freedom at the same time. There should be another ceremony for you two. Maybe a medal for every killer you get.”

“There wouldn’t be enough medals, sir,” Will jokes, thinking, who cares, he doesn’t live here anyway.

A loud laugh rings the air. “That’s the spirit, Graham. You go and keep catching all those insane fiends for us, alright?”

“He doesn’t know he’s talking to the most insane fiend of them all,” Will murmurs to Hannibal’s ear, a smirk ready on his lips, expecting Hannibal to glower at him.

Instead, Hannibal gazes back at him glassily, with a full look of adoration. Will’s smirk deepens and he looks away. He’s forgotten who he’s talking to. Of course, Hannibal wants to kiss him after saying that. Typical, for a mass murderer, really, that he’d be thrilled that he’s not just one of the most insane but the _most_ insane of them all.

“What’s that?” the President asks, clearly not one to take anyone murmuring out of his earshot.

“We will do our best to catch them all, sir,” Will responds quickly and he hopes his tone conveys a more serious one, like he’d been listening all along.

He catches Hannibal looking at him, mouth slightly agape, eyes blazing, slightly out of breath, like he’s already kissed him senseless.

 _Stop that_ , Will’s eyes tell him.

Hannibal continues to not stop.

“Very good, very good.” There’s a series of urgent whispers on the other line and they hear the President give a grunt.

“Well, this was the only highlight of my day, to talk to America’s heroes. You boys were hot topic during social hour. Every attendee in the Summit is jealous they don’t have super husbands like we do. Britain kept reminding everyone that they’ve got their own too but come on, those two are too quiet, no videos of their fights and they’re not even married. I told them all about the video and, if they’re good, I’ll let them watch the fight. Everyone’s been angling for my good graces ever since.”

The President pauses and they hear more insistent murmurs. Will imagines a legion of Miriams tapping urgently at their wrist watch.

“Alright, alright.” The President sighs, like a child told to turn off the television. “Well, I’m off to have a tedious time. At least I got that fight to entertain me in my head about while we talk about policies and whatever the hell we do here.”

“We’re honored you took the time to talk to us,” Will says after a pause because the other adult in the room seems out of order at the moment. He’s not even sure if Hannibal heard what the President was saying about how the video of their fight with Dolarhyde could possibly bring world peace.

“Pleasure’s all mine. Let me know if you boys drop by D.C., alright? And maybe someday I can find the time to be in one your fabled dinners, Doctor Lecter.”

“It will be our pleasure to have you on our dinner table, President Thompson,” Will answers for them after he sees that Hannibal’s too preoccupied envisioning running his hand all over Will’s hair.

“I am already thinking of the dishes that I shall serve you,” Hannibal finally says, winking at Will and he snickers as he connects with Hannibal’s image of the President’s roasted body spread out on their dining table like a suckling pig.

“Send our regards to the First Lady, Sir,” Will adds, and Hannibal smiles at his tactfulness.

“I will. Well, congratulations and well done, boys! Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Sir.”

“Goodbye, Sir.”

The line goes dead.

“There’s a video of your fight?” Abigail asks as she takes her phone but there will be no answer for her because Hannibal is pulling Will back to their chamber full of velvet walls.

“You really have danced so beautifully that night, Will. The moon has shone full and radiant just to capture you in all your splendor and your blood has coated you with an armour that befits your wrath. You were magnificent to behold and the Dragon should count himself fortunate to have been slayed by you for you not a slain lamb, you are the very embodiment of Victory.”

“Thanks,” Will says, laughing lightly and feels himself redden. Hannibal wastes no time. “You’re not so bad yourself and the President’s right, that pounce was impressive. Like a jungle cat.”

“A lion, I hope?”

Will nods and swallows as he sees a flash of the lion’s fangs. “A lion to my lamb.”

Hannibal moves closer until all Will could see are Hannibal’s darkening eyes.

“The lion is finding it very hard not to feast on the lamb at the moment. The world has seen him in all his glory. Allow this lion to worship him.”

“Would feasting on the lamb take away the sins of the world?” Will gives him the purest, most innocent baby lamb look that a man his age can pull off and the lion’s eyes turn unfathomably dark.

“Yes. The lion will be giving the world a gift.” Will watches Hannibal gliding his tongue to his lower lip and Will hitches a breath. Will feels Hannibal’s hunger, the ache of wanting someone all to oneself, to possess every waking thought, every inch of skin and every scent of his soul. He feels like he’s drowning and Will surfaces himself by digging his nails to his palm, to feel pain and to be aware of the present. This living, breathing thing that is Hannibal’s passion will swallow and consume him whole if he does not equip himself with rafters.

“The lamb will not be sacrificed? The act is the gift itself?”

“‘Peace will remain in the Kingdom when the Lion will lie down with the Lamb’.”

Hannibal’s hand is on his waist, touching lightly but it feels weighted with barely restrained control.

“The Lamb is already laying with the Lion. What more does the Lamb have to do to bring peace?” 

_Blink, blink_ , goes Will’s eyes, wide with lamb-like meekness. The lion paws at his waist and its claws clasp to the fold of his skin.

“A kind of peace that can silence the lamb.”

“The lamb will be put to death, then?”

The more Will’s lamb quivers, the more ravenous the lion is becoming. He looks at the mouth that rips off men’s throats and canines that gnash on human meat. It is vicious as a predator’s teeth sinking into the flesh of its prey, and it is fluent with wickedness that latches into undiluted minds without a trace of mercy. And it is also the same mouth that wants to ravish him with an ache that is more than the size of all the universes.

The mouth is closer to his now. The lion’s blood-stained fur taints the lamb’s snow-lined fleece.

Hannibal says a breathless ‘yes’. Hannibal brushes Will’s hair from his face and murmurs words in another language. It feels sweet and severe in intention. It speaks of gratitude of this shared moment and at the same time, impatience, for the language wants to devour the object of its hunger _now_.

“The lion intends only a small death because it wishes to lay with the lamb for time infinite.”

“How many _le petit morts_ will the lion give the lamb before it is killed completely?”

And Will knows he’s doomed after that. After the throaty French. After the death talk. After mouthing it with heavy lids.

He closes his eyes to await a swift death and then, he feels not a pull of lips but the bony pad of… a hand?

He opens his eyes and Hannibal’s face is still inches from his but he is looking at the obstruction between their mouths.

“Uh,” a girl’s voice breaks their velvet walls and clears her throat so loud, that it rings Will’s ears. “I’m sorry but I’m going to be the shepherd or the ringmaster in this situation.”

“Really, Abigail,” Hannibal has retrieved himself from Will’s face and is already sitting up straight. Will briefly wonders if they were in a different situation, Abigail might probably have lost an ear by now. “We were having a private moment. And please come down, you will break the bed.”

It now only occurs to Will that Abigail has crawled up their bed, crouched between their legs. How could he not notice a fully-grown human getting up on their bed? 

“You’re gonna break the bed if I didn’t stop you. Normally I wouldn’t, you know that, I’ve endured much worse PDAs but I am here for medical reasons. Mainly, Dad’s cheek. You are banned from making out, you’ve forgotten what the doctors told you last night, haven’t you?”

Will has put that in the deeper part of his stream and possibly washed it away. No one goes to the same river twice and all that.

“That there should be no kissing.” Abigail answers when Will didn’t, because he’s clearly guilty. “You can control it when you talk or laugh but I’ve seen you two kiss well enough to know that once you start, you can go at it for hours. And before you tell me I’m exaggerating, I give you Mallorca, Spain last year, 2.5 hours on that sea side terrace and so many kissing in between. We hardly got anything done!”

She releases a long-suffering breath. Will glances at Hannibal and he is as red as the flag of Spain. He knows he’s not faring much better. He’ll blame this on this strange world, of course. A strange world that allows him to flirt with death. A world that is hell bent on embarrassing them until they burst into flames.

“So, I’m sorry, dads. I’m not banning you from touching lips. A close mouthed one should do because you’d have a hard time chewing…”

And Hannibal’s hand is back on Will’s waist, the other on his hair and his lips- albeit closed- starts pecking Will’s startled mouth.

Will hears a girl groan in exasperation and feels limbs climb over his legs.

“Five seconds, darling.” Hannibal murmurs.

Will nods. They should respect the rules.

He puts his hand on the back of Hannibal’s scalp and taps his pinkie to count as one. Hannibal’s mouth gives a full tug over Will’s puckered lips. Ring finger as two, and he inhales Hannibal’s musky breath and his cupid’s bow is licked. Digs his middle finger as three and Will gives him a peck of his own and the kiss rings sweetly in the air. Pointer finger and his mouth is opened by the hungry push of Hannibal’s tongue. Will opens his mouth to a smile, and grazes his thumb in a long line over Hannibal’s neck. They both sigh in each other’s mouths after Hannibal lightly bites Will’s lower lip.

“Wow, you really did five seconds this time. I’m proud of you both.”

They both let go and lean back to the raised bed rest.

“You’re the boss, Abigail.” Will feels parched. “Can I please have a sip of water?”

Abigail assists him. He tastes the coppery tang of blood. She’s right, he has to heal or he’ll keep tasting blood and delay his chance to eat solid food. She gives him a sermon on that very fact. 

It should be strange to have their daughter watch them kiss but they have to, because, well, so the world would believe they really are husbands. And they won’t get kicked out. Or maybe they might lose time here if they don’t maintain their cover. Lose time every time they don’t kiss. Either way, Hannibal’s right, they should kiss because that’s what husbands do. They are merely following rules.

Hannibal is in his quiet corner again, as if still recovering from something traumatic or mind-blowing. Will’s mouth tastes like a combination of blood and Betadine so it’s probably the former. Still, well, Hannibal has to suck it up even if he doesn’t like it. It’s the law.

Two knocks on the door and after that, it’s a flurry of comings and goings. Another set of adoring interns are back and they check on their injuries. He could see their excitement as they go over Will’s ragged cheek wound and its connection to the famous fight. Betadine is being applied to his inner cheek and Hannibal looks transfixed as he sees forceps coming in and out of Will’s mouth. Hannibal tells them that next time, he will be the one applying that to his husband’s mouth. Hannibal gets the usual compliment on his prison hair and they even compliment how the incision on his stomach is healing nicely. Will thinks they just want to take a look at Hannibal’s navel. Will has given it a short glance himself and was disappointed that he has worn black boxers. Then the FBI people come in for both their statements and they were a far cry from all the agents Will knew because they were smiling and questioned them both like they were interviewing actors or something. And they were more interested on the details of the fight than Dolarhyde’s mental state or if Dolarhyde might have other victims that aren’t documented. When Will brought that up, they told him not to worry and that only the cases that are deemed important will be brought to their attention. Only high-profile cases for high-profile profilers, one of them giggles. They leave and thank them profusely for their time, like it was their utmost pleasure that the husbands deigned to provide them a statement when it’s just simply part of their job. Will remembers how Jack or other agents just barge in his hospital room, even if Will was either trying to lower the temperature of a frying brain or recovering from a disembowelment, and just force him to remember details of previous (usually harrowing) events.

“We’ve stumbled upon a literally maddeningly polite world, Will.” Hannibal remarks, chuckling and Will joins him.

Their lunches are delivered but it was just clear broth for both of them. Abigail automatically sets Hannibal’s side table and places his bowl. She then goes to Will and gets his spoon to feed him. Will gives him a smug look, as if to say, she likes me better because she’s feeding me. His soup tastes like sugared water. It must be from all the medication, altering his taste buds. Hannibal doesn’t seem to be faring well with his soup either, he makes a face after every sip.

In the late afternoon, a bed is rolled in to the room but Will doesn’t go to it. That bed will only be for sleeping.

Doctor Joseph gives them the good news in his early evening rounds. That they are free to go home tomorrow, one day early and he will just visit them at home. Hannibal thanks him and the doctor seems to be waiting for something else, he keeps talking about how Hannibal should be up and cooking in no time. Hannibal, taking the hint, then invites him to his celebratory dinner.

While Abigail is studying, Will tells Hannibal not to make google searches about them on his own and that he’d like it if they discovered things together. Hannibal tells him he’d only gone as far as to visit the top of his Wikipedia page (that’s how he knew he married Bedelia) because, yes, he also would like to experience the novelty of the new world with Will. They both wonder where their house would be located but they speculate that it would have to be Hannibal’s Baltimore home. Will hopes that he still has Wolf Trap. And of course, dogs. They both resist the urge to google if Will does have dogs. Hannibal assures him that dogs in this world will like him and if there are dogs, that he should not worry if they won’t be able to smell the original Will because they will still know because his love for dogs is imprinted in his soul and it encompasses worlds. Will pats his hand as a thank you. Hannibal murmurs to Will if he’s the Chesapeake Ripper here and Will says that once Abigail is asleep in her room, they’ll check if Hannibal’s murder basement exists. Will doesn’t know if he should assure Hannibal the same way the other man assured him about his dogs. He sees that it is still important for a fully-formed man to have his own identity, even in another world, be it owning dogs or having a predilection to harvest human organs for consumption.

Will announces he’s tired by seven o’clock so he gives Hannibal a kiss on the cheek and Abigail assists him to his own bed.

Abigail takes her leave after leaving the usual million kisses to Daddy and only three to Dad.

They both say goodnight.

* * *

Morning comes and once Will knew he’s awake, he goes down from his bed and heads to Hannibal’s. The nurse removed his IV-line last night so his movements are less restricted. Hannibal is still asleep and when he feels Will’s weight, he makes room for him.

“Sleep some more,” Will whispers and Hannibal does.

Will entertains himself by going to his stream and inspecting the structures that have taken new shape since the last days.

He wakes to two sets of women’s voices and it’s Abigail and Miriam. He looks at a sleeping Hannibal and presses a finger to his lips to hush them.

“Good morning. We have a full day ahead,” Miriam says, unapologetically. She turns on the lights.

Hannibal rouses and looks at Will. Smiles. Will likes how his eyes crinkle especially for him. 

“These two are sorry for waking us.” Will says, squinting from the glare of harsh lights.

“Unfortunately, we’re not. Doctor Lecter, you have a press conference at two o’clock and it’s already nine o’clock, both of you have a photo-op here with your doctors and nurses and the usual one at the house. A follow-up interview in CNN for Doctor Lecter. If you’re up for it, the other networks are vying for a spot as well. So, yes, I’m terribly sorry for waking you two but the world is waiting.”

“Alright, do you have my speech ready?” Hannibal asks, as if he does speeches in hospitals all the time.

“Here.” Miriam hands him a manila folder and a pen. “For your perusal.”

She steps back “Abigail, their outfits?”

“I have them right here.” Abigail says somewhere around Will’s bed.

“Good.”

“Ok, there will be no time for a shower so we’d have to make do with dry shampoo.”

“Got them!” Abigail drops a small bag on the table.

“So, while Doctor Lecter’s checking his speech, ok… Why don’t I see a ring on his finger? Abigail, where’s his ring? It must have been taken out during surgery.” Then she looks at Will’s ring, from his marriage from Molly and narrows her eyes. Will hides it under his blanket

“I don’t have it.”

“It must be given to you as his personal effects.”

“They didn’t give me anything, I swear.”

Will feels sweat beginning to drip from the nape of his neck.

“Doctor Lecter, where is your wedding ring?” Miriam and Abigail wear identical worried faces, like one wrong word would send them both into tears.

Hannibal had been too busy correcting his speech to notice the burgeoning crisis. _Answer it and answer it well,_ _Hannibal or we’d have a room full of bawling women_. He’s glad Jack’s not here, he would have bawled the hardest.

“I removed it before our fight.”

The word _removed_ broke their faces. It’s the wrong answer because clearly, the Hannibal before them would have to have his finger cut off before removing his ring.

“Why would you remove it?”

“Were you two fighting?”

“Tell me you just removed it to clean it.”

“Did you throw it out to the water?”

“Please don’t say the D word because I would die.”

“It’s a symbol of your eternal love and it should never be removed even if you’re going into battle and even if you die, it still stays on your finger, Daddy!”

“Girls!” Will yells, and hisses at the pain on his bad cheek. They stop talking. Hannibal looked comically helpless as he faces his former undead girls. It must feel strange to him, having held these women in full control in the old world, playing his little mind games and making them his long con leverage for Jack and Will and now, in the new world, he has to appease them about the state of his marriage.

“He removed it because I wanted to give him another ring.” Will says. There, that’ll make them coo. There’s a silence still and then, a whimper. Actual tears are flowing fast from two sets of wide eyes. Oh fuck, wrong answer too.

“Were you having an affair?”

“Giving a spouse jewelry means you wants to atone for an affair, Dad!”

“So, why aren’t you wearing the new ring, Doctor Lecter?”

“Who is he?”

“Who is she?”

“Is it still in the cliff house?”

“We don’t have time to go to the cliff house, Abigail! People will literally fall dead if they see Doctor Lecter without a ring.”

“Ok, let’s google jewelry shop near me.”

“Got it, some shop called ‘Treasured Trinkets’”

“That sounds terrible. Are you sure it has wedding rings and not just those kitschy monstrosities?”

“It has a wedding ring section.”

“Ok, fine, Daddy’s a size 7.”

“On it.”

And Miriam does a strange thing. She pulls out a large bag and takes out a hairnet. Covers her blonde hair with it and then, Will sees her pull out something fur-like. It’s a brown shoulder-length wig with bangs and she hurriedly puts it on. Abigail pokes bobby pins to fasten the wig into place. Her blazer is replaced with a light blue cardigan. She looked like a suburban mom, like one of Molly’s PTA friends.

“Ok,” she checks herself in a pocket mirror. Adjusts her wig. She looks at Abigail, who nods back at her, and then at the offending party, the husbands. “Do we need to worry about your marriage?”

It was like they were the same person with the same exact expression that is in the verge of heartache 

“No, Abigail and Miriam, you have nothing to worry about. I love my husband. I love him with my life.” Will didn’t get the chance to see Hannibal as he said it but there is a certain sadness from his intonation. Hannibal is suddenly very far away, like he’s traveled to their old world, where past hurts and harms reside. Will takes his hand to pull him back here, to their new world of exquisite joys and exquisite sorrows.

“You have to trust us.” Will still can’t say it.

“Ok, dads, we trust you.” Abigail is still wiping her eyes.

Miriam nods. “I have to get going. Fingers crossed no one recognizes me. If anyone does, I’ll just tell them I’m proposing to my boyfriend.” She makes a pained face and heads out.

Abigail regards them both. “I’m going home to prepare the house,” she says quietly. It was clear she was still shaken with the possibility of their separation.

“Come here, Abigail.” Hannibal says, gently. She slowly goes to his side of the bed, head down. He takes her by the shoulders and begins to murmur into her ear. She nods or shakes her head as a response to Hannibal’s murmurations. Will finds that he doesn’t mind if they share a special language that Will is not privy to. If anything, it makes Hannibal more attractive. In the few interactions they have, he’s truly being a parent to Abigail. He gives her confidence, he’s patient with her interruptions and he assures Abigail that he will do everything in his power to keep their family whole.

Their talk signals its end when Abigail kisses Hannibal on the cheek. She goes to Will and does the same. “I apologize for thinking you were unfaithful, Dad.”

“It’s alright, Abigail. I wouldn’t know where I would be without your father.” This, he can say because he has said it before to Abigail when they were in the Norman Chapel.

She takes her leave and tells them to come home safe. She’ll be waiting.

Will turns to Hannibal. “So, crying ladies aside, that was pretty funny.”

“I would like to test Miriam’s theory to see if people would truly drop dead if they see me without a wedding ring.”

“Miriam would give an arm and a leg to see that.” Will says ‘an arm’ slowly for effect and Hannibal connects and gives off a beautiful, rumbling laugh.

“You’re a cheeky boy, aren’t you? Tell me, were you feeling left out earlier?”

“Left out from when?”

“When Abigail was lending me her ear,” Hannibal deadpans.

Will clutches Hannibal’s arm to stop himself from opening his mouth and letting out a loud laugh. He coughs instead and Hannibal’s laughter rings in the air even more. Will releases this wondrous sound to all the structures in his stream. Laughter can belong in Hannibal’s section too. 

“I have a _gut_ feeling we’re horrible people.”

“We certainly are. We will remain as our old horrible selves and face highs and horrors. Together.”

Will looks at Hannibal and smiles.

“Together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. :)


	6. Weird Fishes/ Arpeggi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People continue to adore them and they continue to adore each other.

“So, there I’d be, dragging your lifeless body ashore and I pull out seaweed and fish from your bowels… “

“With your injuries, Will, you cannot even drag yourself, much less my body. And lifeless body is debatable, I can certainly hold my own after a mere hundred feet jump.” 

“You got shot from back to front, yours is more serious. Your abdomen would be filled up with fish the moment you resurface. You would be too weak and too heavy to swim on your own.”

“What is this kind of fish you speak of that would immediately enter human cavities the first chance they get? You cannot swim with a severely injured arm whereas my arms are perfectly fine. I will be the one to drag your lifeless body to shore.”

Will scoffs. “The Secret Service were very impressed with how I handled my arm, you know. I’ll have your lifeless body in one arm and swim with my _carved up but still impressive_ arm. It’s not a problem.”

“You were bleeding the other day when I merely pulled you towards me.”

“Well, that’s different, bleeding is prerequisite in our reunions.”

And Will is rewarded with a laughing kiss on his hand. He shakes his head, not sure if he should be concerned that Hannibal is delighted whenever Will talks about being in grievous pain. “Where were we? Ok, so, one of us is lifeless and one of us does CPR.”

“It would be difficult to perform CPR on you, air would escape from your mangled cheek and I, too, would have to manually extract seaweed from your mouth and a small octopus from your throat.”

“So, you see, it would have to be you who has to have a lifeless body. I’d CPR you. Maybe just chest compressions because I don’t have a fully functional mouth. So, there we are alive…”

“Thank you for saving me.”

“You’re welcome. Someone sees us. Your Hannibal would tell him.” Will pauses to clear his throat and prepares himself to imitate Hannibal’s haughty accent. “As you can see, good sir, we have sustained severe but valiant injuries from our fight with a dragon. If you would be so kind to call 911, you will be greatly rewarded by the President for helping America’s Heroes.”

“I do not sound like that.” Hannibal does that upper lip twitch of displeasure and Will is thinking of more ways to say distasteful things just to get to see that twitch. He finds it cute, as cute as a fifty-year-old man can get without looking like he has progressed to regressive dementia.

“Then the man would scream ‘Holy fuck, you’re Hannibal Lecter!’”

“The man has a gun and shoots them both in the head, out of sheer panic.”

“What? You have to give them more credit. They can’t just die from some random guy, they die with a blaze of glory.”

“What kind of people would be present in a dark cliffside in the middle of the night?”

“Fishermen.”

“Fishermen would be in their boats and would sail from the fishing port. Drug dealers or people engaging in nefarious trade are the only ones expected to be present in a dark cliffside. Possibly to rid of dead bodies as well.”

“Come to think of it, I don’t think anyone goes there for fun. So, no one saves us, and we just die on the beach from blood loss.”

“We do not need saving. We hijack a passing car.”

“We look terrible, like fucking sea monsters.” Will lets out a low laugh and taps Hannibal’s arm lightly. “Imagine them, covered in seaweed, dripping with blood, fish gushing out from their mouths and they’re waving their arms for help at the side of a dark road, expecting people to hand them their own clothes and offer them their cars and no one would stop. People would scream and call the police.”

“It would be as good as introduction as any that they are not in Oz anymore. Though, I do not think they would fall off the cliff. The fall is uniquely ours.”

Will pauses to think it through. “You’re right. They certainly do not have enough gravitas for a fall, seeing how they live around here. How can they make themselves this famous? They would have to want it.”

“I still would like to believe that there are no past versions and that this is simply the place catered specifically for us. Our reward.” If Hannibal had a glass of wine, he would have ended that with a well-relished swallow.

“And I prefer the idea that they’re taking our place. It’s time they start living on the edge. They’re too full of sickly-sweet adoration around here, a little horrified faces and screams of terror thrown their way would do wonders to their character. We get that all the time before, look how well we both turned out.”

The bed shakes lightly with Hannibal’s rumbling laugh. “They will have quite a grand lesson in humility.”

“Learning to be humble is one thing. But waking up and learning that they’re America’s Most Wanted is another. That’s sure to harden them up.”

“Then they should be fortunate that that man who saw them on the shore has killed them. It would have spared them the trouble.”

“I thought there wouldn’t be a man on the shore?”

“Jack, then.” Hannibal clicks his fingers. “Oh, I have it.”

“What?”

“Chiyoh.”

“Oh. Chiyoh. Our Deux Ex Machina. So, they’ll be fine, then.” Will rests his head back, as if relieved that their theoretical versions are in safe hands. 

“Perfectly fine. If they had half a mind, they’d go back to the cliff house and retrieve our papers there.”

“Our papers?”

“Papers of the Morrisons. Blake, Matis and Heather.”

“Those are nice names.”

“Thank you.”

Then they fall silent and think of another universe where another Will and Hannibal is living, on the run but settled, with Abigail, because they have chosen to leave Hannibal’s kitchen and decided to take each other’s hands.

Will leans his head on Hannibal’s shoulder. Hannibal looks back at him and though he adjusts to fit Will’s head, he does not make any more move to bring himself closer.

Miriam bursts in without as much as a knock. She’s without her wig but her expression is more wild-eyed than when she came out.

“Ok, gentlemen, I got it. Oh god, I didn’t knock, didn’t I? Sorry about that.” She knocks the door as if to make amends and Agent Roy opens it to ask if there’s something wrong and he looks at the bed-ridden husbands. Will shakes his head from Hannibal’s shoulder. She says her apologies and Agent Roy simply nods.

“Sorry again, it’s getting a little wild out there.” She rummages through her purse until she gets a hold of a small black velvet pouch. Hands it to Hannibal.

“Here’s your ring, Doctor Lecter. Please let it fit.”

Hannibal hold the ring to the light and without ceremony, slides it on his left ring finger.

“Thank you for handing it to me, Miriam, it fits perfectly. With you, we are in such capable hands.” Hannibal nudges Will and he snorts in response, hiding his face in Hannibal’s arm to let out a quiet laugh.

“Thank you for getting your hands dirty for us.” Will adds and when he hears no reaction from Hannibal, he whispers “Too far?”

“A bit heavy-handed, yes.” Will buries his head to laugh some more.

Miriam just looks at them and says ‘You’re welcome’ as a question because by her expression, she knows she’s missing out on a joke but she’s just too polite to ask.

“I hope you did not work your fingers to the bone in procuring a ring for me. You even wore a disguise so you would not stick out like a sore thumb.” Hannibal is keenly watching Will’s laughing form while saying it. Will looks at the pleasure in Hannibal’s eyes and, like him, he is also storing Will’s every release of laughter in his memory palace. Laughter can reside in Will’s wing in the palace too.

“Thank you, it’s nothing. It was your idea, having the disguise. I am getting too recognizable. Well, better me than Abigail.”

“We will always rely on you to not let things get too out of hand.”

“Uh, you’re quite welcome, again. It’s not a problem.” Will nudges Hannibal to stop because he can’t breathe. Miriam, blessedly, continues to carry on. “I based the ring on your finger, Agent Graham, to make them match. Now they’re both just plain gold bands. I have to hand it to you; they do look more elegant than the other ones. I mean I’m not saying they’re gaudy but I admit they’re not as flashy.”

Will is wheezing on Hannibal’s neck by then and says between hiccups: “She made a hand idiom, too, Hannibal. You can’t make this up.”

Hannibal pats Will’s shaking chest. “That’s alright, Miriam, I like the new rings. You truly know us like the back of your own hand.”

Will is seriously going to break his cheek. He's hit with a realization that this, along with kissing, might be the reason for it and he shakes his head in incredulity. When a doctor would ask why he messed up his cheek, he would say it was a result of happiness. Not from screaming in agony or a wendigo’s antlers ripping it open. It would be from expressions of joy and affection. That he was happy. He can’t think of a better way to break his cheek than this. 

“Okay,” she says slowly, looking at Will like he’s sprouted antlers. “Are you alright, Agent Graham?”

“Don’t mind our Will, Miriam, I’m merely putting roses back to his cheeks.”

She looks at them for a hard moment, at Hannibal who is still looking at Will in wonder and Will recovering from hiccups, then seems to think it’s a husband thing so she just nods and pulls out her phone.

“Ok, quick answers on Twitter before we get dressed. Sergio has heard news about your haircut, Doctor Lecter, so he wanted to ask who’s your new barber so he could give his congratulations.”

Will groans. A day, just one day, can he not hear about Hannibal’s hair.

“Sergio my barber?” Hannibal asks and he smiles lightly. It’s a reminder for them, on how this world is working, that even the bit players like Hannibal’s barber is acknowledging their very existence.

“Yes, he’s trying very hard not to get hurt, stating: I would like to express my congratulations to Doctor Lecter’s new chosen barber. I hope he will treat Doctor Lecter’s wonderful hair with utmost care and that in the event that his hands and scissors are not up to excellence, Sergio’s barbershop is always welcome to have him back.”

“If they only knew the protocols the BSHCI had to do just for you to have a haircut: bite mask, strait jacket, guns pointed at you,” whispers Will and he sees Hannibal’s tiny hairs stand on end at the back of his neck. Hannibal’s I-want-to-kiss-you look is back and Will grabs a cup of water to save his mouth from an onslaught.

“I’m sorry?” Miriam says with an edge of impatience, looking directly at Will. He’s aware he's really being quite rude to Miriam but he can’t help but feeling like a schoolboy. He blames the water here, making him act juvenile just so he can make an insane fiend smile.

“I was the one who cut his hair,” Will announces because he feels sorry for Sergio. He’s sure he’s a very gifted barber, he quite likes Hannibal’s old hair too, he should get all the glory for that. But it’s better for Will to take the credit and Sergio would give him a free pass because he’s the husband, even if it should go instead to the unfortunate barber who had to cut the hair of all of BSHCI’s crazies.

“Really? You did that, where? In the cliff house?”

“Yes, his bangs were getting in the way so I thought, why not just cut them off.”

“Honestly, Will, _bangs_? It’s called a fringe.” The upper lip twitch is back and Will pats himself for his good vocabulary work.

“Cutting off the bangs made him look younger, you know, so he could catch up with me.” Hannibal doesn’t look like he wants to kiss him now, which Will finds, is...disappointing. 

“Wow, Doctor Lecter, not only do you trust your husband with your life, you trust him with your hair, which is, for me, a more serious thing.”

The girl needs to sort out her priorities but OK. “Well, yeah, I did a good job, right?” He cards his fingers through Hannibal’s hair, one, two, three times and tilts Hannibal’s head as if inspecting his handywork and that I want-to-kiss-you look is back, along with a kitten-like purr. That's better.

“I’ll let Sergio know it’s a one-time thing. It is a one-time thing, right?”

“Definitely,” Hannibal answers quickly, too quickly for Will's liking. “I look forward to visiting Sergio’s barbershop very soon.”

“Alright, let me know so we can set up an appointment.”

Will glares at him, feeling a little offended. “You don’t trust me enough to cut your hair?”

“I’m sure there are other parts on my body that grows hair that you can cut, darling. Where only you, not Sergio, has access to.”

Hannibal winks at him and Will takes a sip of his water, trying to control a growing blush on his ears.

Miriam clears her throat and gives out a very fake cough while walking to the room’s cabinet because, like Abigail, she is apparently very experienced in detecting if things are heading to a carnal direction. She might as well use a water spray and spritz them as one would to cats in heat.

Might as well because Will doesn’t have a comeback for that other than ‘uhms’ and ‘wheres’. He doesn’t know where else in another man’s body grows hair other than places hidden by clothing or underwear.

Hannibal rises from the bed, as spry as ever, takes his clothes and walks to the bathroom. Will quietly goes to Miriam and she hands him his clothes, black trousers, cream sweater and a dark blue blazer.

Hannibal emerges, clean shaven and fresh faced. He wore a burgundy sweater underneath grey coat. His black trousers clung perfectly to shape his legs, not that Will was looking, of course.

Will smiles first and waves. Hannibal gives him a breathless smile.

Miriam is holding a white pot of something and she’s waving it at Will’s face. “You first, Agent Graham. Please take a seat.” Miriam has a chair ready. Once Will is seated, she’s dabbing some product on the bags under his eyes and patting a bright pink pointed sponge over it. It actually smells nice and it feels pretty good, like a face massage, so he closes his eyes and only too late, when she’s dabbing more stuff on his forehead, did he realize that he’s actually having makeup put on his face. The first time he wore makeup was when he was ten, for a school play then next on his wedding day to Molly, where people actually staged a mini intervention for him to allow them to apply concealer on his very dark under-eyes so he wouldn’t look like Jack Skellington and make Molly his Corpse Bride.

So, this is what he’s having, some kind of concealer, to hide all the undesirables on his face. So he can look halfway human in public and in the press conference. He opens his eyes and sees someone looking at him (getting his makeup done, of all things) with full, unabashed desire. Well, at least he has this guy to count on to look at him like that, that even with or without makeup, he is not desired any less.

“Close your eyes, please,” she murmurs when she sees Will looking back at the person who’s looking at him like a piece of marbled meat. ‘ _Really, Hannibal?_ ’ he says with his eyes, ‘ _even this_?’ He obeys Miriam because Hannibal’s expression remained unchanged. It should be unsettling but, over the years, his face has developed some kind of tolerance to Hannibal's piercing stares and he actually relaxes under it, like he’s sunbathing. He hears a spraying sound over his head. There’s no scent so it’s not hairspray? The girls mentioned something about shampoo so maybe this is it. She applies lip balm to his dry lips.

“Thank you, all done.” Will says a thank you and he feels kinda better. Like he’s pretty or something.

She takes out two expensive looking identical wrist watches and hands one to each of them. At the case back, there’s a simple inscription of Hannibal’s name. He looks at Hannibal assessing his own watch and probably Hannibal has Will’s name on it, too. God dammit, their previous versions were so corny. They do deserve to have fish in their mouths and bowels. 

Miriam goes to the bathroom and he hears running water. He figures she’s washing her hands. She pulls out different products for Hannibal, fancy looking pots and begins working them by layers to his face. Will, watches, not with desire but with amusement. Even here, Hannibal continues to be a hoity toity vain bastard while Will is a 5-in-1-bottle-using, unpolished hoi poloi. Miriam’s really good at spreading the product to his skin and it doesn’t make Hannibal look like an overly made up face of a dead body for viewing at a wake. His products are probably worth thousands. Will briefly thinks if he’s poor in this marriage. Is he paid less than his spouse? Why can’t he have Hannibal’s fancy products too? Surely, he can afford fucking La Mer or Tom Ford and whatever that black pot is that’s too fancy to even have a name, too? Even Hannibal's spray shampoo thing is different. It has a woodsy scent while Will’s too low-brand to even have a right to smell like anything. After Miriam’s done hair spraying or spray shampooing Hannibal’s golden hair and applying a non-shiny but also expensive looking lip balm on his lips, her phone pings a familiar tone of an alarm.

“Perfect,” she says, a pleased smile on her face. “We’re right on schedule.”

There’s a knock on the door and after Miriam yells ‘Come in’, three women and two men in FBI jackets enter the room. They all chorus a ‘Good afternoon’ to the three of them. Miriam hands Hannibal his folder and the male agents take their bags. There’s suddenly too many people standing in the room and he feels the familiar stifling of air and the increased hitching of his breath.

Hannibal is up and by the door, reading his speech, surrounded by agents informing him about something Will couldn’t hear. People are talking all around, Miriam tells Hannibal he needs to step out the door because it’s time. Will feels like he’s an acre away from him, very, very far away and he’s being ignored and he will not allow that so he shoves the man in front of him, gently or not, he couldn’t remember and takes Hannibal’s free hand. He links their fingers and that about just stops everything: time, movement and space. Will collides to Hannibal’s frozen back and an agent bumps behind Will. He hears a collective groan behind him.

Hannibal is blocking the doorway and as if in slow motion, he turns around and looks at their linked hands. He closes his eyes and lets out a slow, savouring breath. Will connects and he knows, he doesn’t know how, that Hannibal has thought about this very same thing. Of them, holding hands. Letting the world know they’re each other’s man.

_There you are, back to me again._

Hannibal does not look at Will even though Will is waiting for him to see his open face. Will then sees that Hannibal’s turned quite shy at his display so he kisses Hannibal’s cheek. Hannibal, head still lowered, squeezes his hand as a thank you.

Applause rings out the moment they walk out the door. The nurses and doctors all stop to give them a clap as they walk, hand-in-hand. They follow Miriam’s blonde head, all the while waving at the jubilant, applauding people. Some patients even waited outside their doors and it looks funny to Will that some can clap so enthusiastically without dislodging their IVs. They probably thought how lucky of them to get hospitalized the same time as the famous husbands. Ridiculous. Every single person in this world.

Hannibal is no longer looking shyly at him anymore.

 _See?_ He says with blazing eyes and Will seriously considers if they can use their five-second kiss at that very moment.

Miriam is walking close to them and whispers, “They’re going to do the same thing so try to act surprised.”

They look at each other. They won’t have trouble with that, that’s for certain. 

The parade stops outside a door marked Conference Room A. People are already milling around with their endless, enthusiastic clapping. There are the familiar shapes of phones either taking pictures or videos of them. Will feels like he would look quite manic or cross-eyed in every shot. Hannibal, well, he looks like a fucking movie star, like he’s on a red carpet about to take his Oscar. He doesn’t flash a big smile but it certainly feels like this is his movie premiere, his show. Will remembers a film, yes, Notting Hill (Will has had a wife so of course he’d seen it) and Will is, of course, that bumbling floppy-haired what’s-his-face and Hannibal is fucking Julia Roberts.

The door to the conference room opens and Miriam leads them to the center of a mini stage. In one corner are the press people with their press badges and wires and cameras. The other side are people in different kinds of hospital uniforms, from white coats, scrubs, overalls. They hear a gasp when they enter. Will sees women huddled in groups, some hugging and clutching each other, others doing tiny excited jumps as if they all are experiencing a personal, life-altering moment in their lives.

A tall, red-haired woman steps forward with a mic on her hand. She already has tears streaming down her face.

“Good afternoon, to everyone in this room. Good afternoon, Doctor Lecter and Agent Graham,” she says in a watery voice and grips her mic tighter as if to gather courage there. “Michelle Jacobi was the sweetest, kindest woman one would ever has the privilege to know. She was the gem of the Pediatric ICU and she saved countless little lives with her dedication and unrelenting spirit. An evil, perverted man has taken her and her family away far too soon and he would’ve taken more if it weren’t for these two brave, brilliant, dashing, handsome men who fought fearlessly. Michelle and her family were given justice that day, when the Profiler Husbands delivered their sweet blow of death and we at the hospital are eternally grateful to both of you. And can I say, you really do look so handsome in person.”

“Thank you, we didn’t catch your name, my dear,” Hannibal says, graciously. The lady said her name and Hannibal and Will, by extension, hugged her in a sandwich, much to people swoons and awws. He doesn’t catch her name still because Will was busy in his own thoughts, back to another time in their own world, when Marissa Schurr’s mother gave her Victim Impact Statement to Hannibal in court and that the only moment that Hannibal gave as much as a reaction was when Marissa’s mother asked him, “What if someone you loved, if you even are capable of love, was hung up on an antler head? I can do that too, you know, I can truss him up and throw him down until the antler pierces his heart and he breathes no more. But I’m not like you, I am capable of love and forgiveness. Whereas you, you will never be shone the light of love for the rest of your life.”

Aside from thinking that Marissa’s mother clearly did her research, using a different pronoun instead of the usual, Will truly thought Hannibal really deserved to see someone he loves mounted on a stag head, even if that someone would be him and, well, he would be dead. The victims’ statements honestly did have a profound and deciding effect on Will and that is partly why he could resist himself from visiting Hannibal for three years. Because he could still feel their loss, the emptiness of their homes, and that there would be moments in their lives that they wish that the person who they lost was simply there.

Hannibal squeezes his hand, gently to bring him back and Will stops asking impossible, old world questions.

They take a picture with the crying lady but she’s not yet done with the microphone. “The hospital choir has a surprise for both of you. Because the world cherishes your love and it is truly the most glorious thing.”

From out of nowhere, piano keys are being struck to bring out a familiar melody of a song. Will jogs his memory, he’s heard it before, from some karate movie he’d seen as a kid and has rewatched with Walter.

A group of maybe ten people step forward with Nurse Tom front and center. Then they begin to sing.

_Tonight it’s very clear_

_Cause we’re both lying here_

_There’s so many things I wanna say_

Oh God. Will feels himself actually dying, his life force is being sucked away after every note. They’re all singing it quite seriously, too, like they pulled out all-nighters just so they could practice and deliver Will’s slow, agonizing death. All eyes are on them, watching their reaction. Amidst his impending end, Will manages to bring out a smile, as if he’s touched.

_I will always love you_

_I would never leave you alone_

Hannibal, though, yeah, wow, he could not look more exultant. Everyone looks a bit lovestruck at the moment but Hannibal encompasses that a millionfold. His eyes are sparkling and anytime now, the circles of his pupils will transform into hearts.

_I don't wanna lose you_

_I could never make it alone_

And then, Will mentally speeds up to the next lyrics of the song, and oh fucking god, they are the most god-awful words that the English language has ever strung together and it should be treated as a curse and not sung as if it is the same levels as a Halleluiah.

_I am a man who will fight for your honor_

_I'll be the hero you're dreaming of_

_We'll live forever_

_Knowing together_

_That we did it all for the glory of love_

Of fucking course, Hannibal loved it. Gazes at Will like he is the very man fighting for his virginal honor. _We’ll live forever_ , yeah that’ll go to his head as well, that they’re famous and maybe if they die, they would just cross to other worlds and there’d be no end to Will’s miseries. _God, why fucking me?_

_You keep me standing tall_

_You help me through it all_

_I'm always strong when you're beside me_

_I have always needed you_

_I could never make it alone_

Yeah, ok, this part is quite true for Will and it’s actually sweet and as much as he keeps asking himself impossible questions like why Hannibal and why me, he could see this as a strong grounding truth for them both. This speaks of their oneness and how they will always be bound together and, shit, Will is feeling tears in his eyes.

_I am a man who will fight for your honor_

There goes the cursed chorus again and this time, Hannibal is softly singing it to him, much to everyone’s complete delight.

_I'll be the hero you're dreaming of_

_We'll live forever_

_Knowing together_

_That we did it all for the glory of love_

When will this fucking song end? he wonders in agony. Then, nurse Tom steps forward and walks closer to the mic stand.

He belts out:

_It's like a knight in shining armor_

_From a long time ago_

_Just in time I will save the day_

_Take you to my castle far awayyyyy_

He’s actually got some serious pipes on him. Well done, Nurse Tom. Then, Will is pissed at the lyrics’ implication. They’re making it like Hannibal’s his Knight-in-Shining-Armor, aren’t they? He felt an urge to get the microphone and stop the song to correct them because, really, he’s the one who busted out Princess Hannibal from the Insane Asylum. He should be the Knight.

Then there’s a man on a saxophone for the instrumental break and Will feels his jaw is frozen stiff from all the polite smiling. Please let this song be over. Please let this song be fucking over. And God answers prayers afterall. After the sax solo, there was a burst of applause. 

“That was beautiful.” Hannibal is shiny-eyed and blushing.

“Thank you,” he manages to say with his frozen, plastic smile. 

They let go of each other’s hands to clap.

And because Will didn’t die from sheer mortification, he takes Hannibal’s folder to cover their faces and grabs Hannibal’s neck to bring their mouths together. Will counts to five as Hannibal’s lips quiver in surprise at Will’s gesture. They hear a collective swoon and whooping behind the folder and Hannibal sighs deliciously into Will’s mouth.

 _This is one of the happiest days of my life_ , Hannibal’s entire being tells him.

Will gives him a small, shiny smile and vows to himself to make more.

There is more applause and cheering but the song has ended so Miriam is back to business, directing people to form lines for the picture. Hannibal has his hand on Will’s waist the entire time and Will leans into Hannibal and tries not to let people touch him or Hannibal. But it can’t be helped, people were touching their arms, shoulder, and of course, their hair. He was glad Hannibal was still quite too happy to care, everyone would have been dinner in the future. They have another solo with Mrs. Jacobi’s lady friend, then with their nurses, Dr. Joseph and his interns, the hospital choir, the hospital administration and some other groups that are too unimportant to remember.

The room clears out and only the press remains. A podium is set in the middle of the stage and Hannibal starts delivering his statement.

“Three days ago, we, the Profiler Husbands, have valiantly slayed Francis Dolarhyde or who we all came to know as the Great Red Dragon…”

A flash momentarily blinds Will’s eyes and he sees spots of black and white. His ears are ringing and he swallows and shakes his head just to make it stop. He sees Hannibal pause to look at him and Will throws him an ‘I’m OK’ smile.

“My husband’s brilliant mind and my unique gifts of psychological profiling will continue to give pride to the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Our investigations are peerless and our skills unmatched by any other …”

Will could feel the God-complex emanating from Hannibal’s microphone and people all hang on to his every word like he was some kind of cult-leader.

“There will be more Dolarhydes and rest assured we will be waiting to deliver you your own slaughter.”

The press begins shouting all at once and he thought Miriam said there’d only be three short questions. They ask about the fight and if there’s a video. Hannibal tells them it’s FBI property. A minute later, someone says someone hacked the FBI. The video is now posted on Youtube. Will feels a vacuum stealing his breath. No, that fight was theirs, it’s private but now everyone and their uncle will see it. Shit, Will wants to just shake this all of and disappear. Maybe out of sheer will, he could self-combust. That way, he’d be floating in the air and he could breathe again.

The air is getting louder like the microphone is elevating the press people’s cacophony of questions and he can’t hear Hannibal’s voice anymore. The podium is empty. Now, Hannibal is by his side, with his arm around his shoulder. The FBI people form a human blockade to shield them from the press 

“You’re not feeling well, my love?” Hannibal asks him over the din of noise and Will nods. He’s being swept away from the room and to another empty one. They are now alone and while he still hears a buzz outside, it’s now faint but still, he’s underwater or in a vacuum. He’s far, far away.

“Will.” Hannibal’s voice commands and Will tries to stand up straight but he can’t. Two firm hands are on his upper arms. “I want you to picture something for me. Are you listening?”

“Yes,” Will says, faintly, still from somewhere far away.

“I want you to picture yourself on your knees.”

Wil raises an eyebrow at that.

“You’re still quite cheeky, aren’t you? No, darling, you will feel tongues licking your fingers and your cheek and when you reach out your hand, you will feel the velvet fabric of Winston’s fur and he will shyly, without much movement, let you stroke the entire length of his body. Then, something wet and it's the ever inquisitive bump of Buster’s snout. You try to get a hold of him but he has already ventured away in pursuit of better adventures. Patty’s tiny paws will scratch your leg and you lift her up and wrap her fully with both hands because, as the smallest, she always wants to be held as if she was a newborn still. Grover would bark but will never bite and you scratch him under his ear, to a well stroked patch of black and he then whimpers and gives you his best 'I'm a good dog' expression even though he is clearly not because he is the most boisterous of them all. Sophie would run around in circles and you wait for her to come to you. She always wants to be held last.”

“I have the best dogs.” Will puts his head on Hannibal’s chest. He is enveloped in Hannibal’s arms red; he’s never felt as fully held as much as when Hannibal holds him.

“Yes, you do, in this world, too.”

“I have dogs? How do you know?”

“An emergency google, of course.”

And Will is surfaced back, at the present, in this new world, with his man.

“You know me so well.”

 _Because_.

Will knows the _because_ that is always etched in Will's skin. The answer to his impossible questions.

_Because I love you._

“Are you ready to meet your dogs, Will?” Hannibal kisses his hair softly.

“I’m ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Sorry if this is just an extended hospital fluff. Things will get moving once they're home.  
> I'm sorry not sorry for the song, the cheesiest, grossest of all songs. "The Glory of Love" by Peter Cetera  
> Have a Happy New Year!


	7. Walking After You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our boys come home! Will it be Wolf Trap, Hannibal's Manor of Murders or a one level bungalow? Will meets his dogs. A memory comes up and the new world is hella keen on making Will want to crawl into a hole and die.

Hannibal removes the steady press of his hand on the small of Will’s back only when they reach the open door of an awaiting FBI-standard black SUV. He waits for Will to be fully seated onto the black seats before he gracefully glides next to him, sparing no inch in between. Hannibal’s hand slots itself back and Will leans into it to let the other man know that it is allowed. Hannibal is handling him like he’s some kind of precious cargo and he welcomes it, because the pellets of words, images, sounds brought about by the overactivity of his imagination is cracking the already thin sheet of glass on his head’s circumference. When it breaks, he will be without form, and to follow suit, without function. 

His thumb and middle finger press the shallow dip of his temples to stifle the cacophony of cheers and jeers; and wipe off the interchanging expressions of delight and disgust. 

There were many times in his life where he has felt like he has lived through a hundred days all in a span of minutes. But what he remembered today, it was when he received the loudest reception and it grow louder and louder until his glass head did shatter. Broken shards lay strewn on the ground and no matter how many times he tries to sweep them off, a piece lodges on the pad of his foot and he bleeds and limps with every step.

“You have let go of your dogs, Will. You are far away again.” Hannibal is quietly scanning the length of his face.

“The crowd reminded me of something that happened before. And then, something quite funny, actually, while I was hearing the cheers.”

He joins Hannibal in regarding the crowd of about thirty people behind steel cordons outside their vehicle, taking pictures of their gleeful selves with the car as their background. A group of women were doing chants, asking for the husbands to come out. 

The driver’s side door opens and a frazzled Miriam climbs in and she pours out her bags, phones and drink cannisters to the passenger seat. She turns around to throw them a tired smile to which they both return with their own. The radio hums to life and classical chamber music blasts through the speakers. She puts on headphones and Will remembers how old-world Miriam had relayed to him her time with the Ripper. How she heard chamber music while she was subjected to hypnotism. It’s oddly fitting that here, she is resisting chamber music as well, like a subconscious form of support for her old-world counterpart (if there’s any).

Miriam moves once the vehicle in front of them rolls forward. They’re in a three-car convoy and he revels in the importance of their personas, to have this kind of security that’s only reserved for diplomats and presidents, something that not even the Director of the FBI is given with such fanfare. 

“We will start with your memory,” Hannibal’s crisp voice breaks into his musings. He could feel Hannibal bracing for it. It is a cross, he realizes, that both of them will always have to bear whenever ‘memories’ and all that comes with it, is resurfaced. 

“It took me back three years ago. When you alighted from your vehicle.” He says it as quietly as he can and it somehow quells the noise inside his head down a small notch.

“You were there.” Will feels Hannibal’s hand stiffen on his back.

He nods, closing his eyes. It is blessedly black and it has a velvet feel on his eyelids, like the walls of his and Hannibal’s chamber.

“I was.” 

“Why did you come?” 

Will reads what has not been said, words that have lived in the Old World but Hannibal chose not to say in the New, now that he is allowed to touch Will with his hands and Will is touching him with his lips. But Will heard it all the same.

_Did you come to gloat?_

“No, I wasn’t there to gloat,” he clarifies as if the words were spoken all the same. “Gloating would require your knowledge of my presence. There was no intention for you to see me. Half of me was there, to convince myself that I did the right thing. The other half to face it all with you, to fully see what I have done.”

Hannibal remains quiet, as if he was mentally placing Will to a room in his memory place that he initially thought was only inhabited by himself. Will had then been careful to avoid detection: grew his beard longer, wore a hat and sunglasses and situated himself five-persons thick from the perimeter fence. People would have been well-acquainted to his face and there would be a commotion once someone recognizes Will Graham, the Not-Chesapeake Ripper whom the Ripper framed and disemboweled, and if they’re readers of Tattlecrime, he’s the Ripper’s sort of _someone_. If Hannibal caught a whiff of that, he would have concluded that Will truly went there to delight in his downfall. 

“Somehow, the applause and cheers of today has triggered a memory of that crowd’s shared loathing,” Will continues and wrings his fingers together. “Every taunt, every name they called you was a boomerang hurling back towards me. I saw every hateful face; I felt their filthy spit on my cheek and my body rattled along with the shaking of the fence.” 

“There was an onslaught of the past whilst the present is unraveling before you,” Hannibal says it softly to his ears. “Both as fresh and as vivid. That must be quite an attack to your faculties.”

Will nods and takes a breath. “The louder the cheers, the louder the taunts.” 

The car lurches forward and stops to traffic and Hannibal’s hand smoothly slides to his waist. 

“And when I fell?”

The public had not been quelled by the promise that the ‘Cultured Cannibal’ trial will be broadcasted live; they also demand that he be awarded the indignity of a Walk of Shame, as close as they could get to publicly humiliate Hannibal Lecter, the same way he had humiliated his victim’s bodies. 

And so, they shall have it. 

Hundreds showed up with cannibal punned t-shirts and posters (courtesy of Freddie Lounds’ serial killer merchandise), bullhorns, and voice boxes ready to bellow out the choicest curses at full blast. Hannibal’s convoy had arrived at the back entrance of the court almost the same time as Will himself arrived, so he only had a small diamond shaped frame from the chain-linked fence for viewing. 

The howls grew louder as the armoured car pulled to a stop and a deafening roar rang the crisp autumn air the moment the steel double doors opened. People pushed forward to catch a glimpse of the man-eating-man who mutilated bodies and consumed people’s organs and limbs for pleasure; the malevolent, grotesque man who mounted girl’s bodies on stag heads. The closest they could see to a Devil Incarnate, the stuff of every mother’s nightmares. He nudged a hoarse-voiced, booing woman’s head to the side and he could make out a thick, brown cloth covering an unmistakeable form of the man whom he has last seen kneeling on his driveway. Even underneath the sack-like cloth, Hannibal walked ram-rod straight, head defiantly high, chained feet in careful, measured steps as two armed escorts gripped his arms on each side. The vehicle was parked far from the entrance for a reason. It was orchestrated to be a very long, very publicly satisfying parade and the rest of his escorts, a good dozen on each side, certainly were in no hurry. It seemed that they also want to give the monster his due. 

Over time, Will’s memory has clouded over the specific wordings that they called Hannibal and he doesn’t know if Hannibal has even heard them at all. He had no idea how tough Hannibal’s mental strongholds were, how one could block out all this noise, when Will had felt like his own head was being pummeled and ground to pieces. And on that part, Will was also split in two. He wanted to side with the crowd, and with the victim’s family because, technically, he was also a victim. But he was also Hannibal’s _other_ , and no matter how loud the roars, his vessel of empathy opened only to one man that day. He saw the invisible link of the crowd hurling expletives to Hannibal and the words travelling directly to the well of Will’s mind. They echoed inside his belly and scratched and crawled on his skin. 

_Rip that fucking blanket off!  
He killed one of yours!  
Show yourself, you coward!_

An armed guard had apparently obeyed, as he broke the line and pulled the cloth to reveal a remarkably stone-faced Hannibal, wearing a bullet proof helmet and vest over a prison jumpsuit. People hooted and cheered wildly and the fence looked to be in a brink of toppling over. Hannibal looked ahead, as if the cloth has covered him still, and ever the bastard, lifted a corner of his mouth to show the crowd a smooth, unaffected smile. They hissed and spit at this and rattled the chained fence even more. One guard pushed Hannibal forward, hasty and intentional, and it garnered a whoop and more calls to push him more. 

_Make him fall!  
Kick him to the fucking ground!_

Will recognized one of Hannibal’s lawyers, Metcalfe, gesturing wildly to the guards to take it easy on his client. The guards seemed to deliberately ignore him and were instead more attuned to the crowd’s encouragements. Hannibal had indeed killed one of theirs, two FBI agents who were utilized for framing Doctor Chilton. Beverly. Possibly a victim that one of the guards knew personally. Will is familiar with the law enforcer’s mentality of comradeship: to deliver absolute hell to the killer who took ‘one of our guys’. Metcalfe yells for the men to put back the covering and to please not touch his client. He knew and Will, even as far as he is, also knew where this was heading.

And it happened. 

A leather boot to his back and Hannibal advances two steps more before his body tilts forward. It still looked elegant, as Hannibal’s every movement is wont to be, as he twisted his shoulders and, like a cat that always lands on its feet, Hannibal fell to where he preferred: his face away from the crowd, away from the cameras and the people who so desperately want to see his fallen face. The impact knocked Will, and it reverberated right to the bones of his cheek and shattered the glass of his skull. 

“I fell with you.” 

There was a silence then a resounding cheer as if a touchdown had been scored. He waited for Hannibal to be brought back up and covered with the cloth. Amidst the throng of bodies, he pushed and elbowed his way out. Tears pooled at the rim of his eyes. 

He’d seen enough. He’d seen too much. He’d seen what he deserved. 

“Even with this knowledge, I am still glad I did not see you that day. Thank you for telling me.”

He looks into Hannibal’s eyes and he wants to weep at how he looks at Will, with such open and accepting tenderness. How could it be simple? That Hannibal so easily acknowledged Will witnessing his public shaming not as a form of triumph over his disgrace, but as a form of support.  
  
“If it’s any consolation to you, after that, I ran to my car and hurled all over my coffee cup.”

Hannibal gives him a small smile. “Not enough, I think.”

“I,” he clears his throat, and braces himself for the inevitable embarrassment that his revelation would bring. “I spent an hour just screaming and banging my head on the steering wheel. I knocked over the cup where I vomited and it spilled over the passenger seat.”

“Really, only an hour? I have waited for far more and in more extreme weather conditions.”

Will surmises that would have been Hannibal waiting for Jack to arrive at Will’s house, outside in the cold, only for him to kneel and surrender to Will. 

“I had to drive with the acrid stench of my stomach. That has to count for something. Alright, after the trial, I got myself blind drunk and slept for five days, only waking up to either drink myself into a stupor or to feed the dogs.”

“Only five days? That’s quite a quick recovery. If you were truly affected, at the very least, you should have succumbed yourself into a month-long coma. Remember, I went to prison for you.”

Will makes a big show of scoffing. Hannibal says it as if Will was the one murdering and cannibalizing people all over America, and that he took the fall for Will’s murders. As a great act of true love. Please.

“You went to prison. For your crimes. And that was the most luxurious prison cell I’ve ever seen. When I was in jail, a rat was chewing at the end of my hair. Would have made a rat nest and give birth to rat babies if I didn’t keep watch.”

“I will count that unfortunate time in your life as part of your penance. So, given that you are here with me today and did not die from alcohol poisoning, then did you at least have gastric ulcers for your trouble?”

“Yes. And dehydration, pounding headaches, diarrhea, vomited my entire stomach lining.” Hannibal flashes his I’m-very-entertained-at-your-pain smile. “My digestion hasn’t been the same since someone gutted me, you know. I passed out once on the bathroom floor, hit my head on the edge of the sink. It took all five dogs barking at the same time to wake me up. Patty was licking my blood and it’s a small mercy she didn’t eat me like she ate Mason Verger’s face.”

There is silence, as if Hannibal is deliberating if Will’s torment and penance is acceptable. That it is enough that Will had not been surviving their separation. 

“That does provide me with consolation,” he finally declares, flashing a bit of teeth. “You do have the best dogs.”

“That I definitely do. Even though they have developed palates for human flesh.”

“You must have been a good master for them not to eat you. Or perhaps the meals you prepare them were simply better tasting than your skin.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t be tasty with all that alcohol seeped in my system.”

“I disagree, alcohol would make a good marinade to your meat. What was your preferred poison for stupor?”

“Whiskey.”

Hannibal nods affirmatively. “You would have made a great steak for grilling.”

“Thanks, I’ll keep it in mind never to get blind drunk with whiskey around you. You’ll get ideas.”

Hannibal laughs at this. The light of the afternoon sun catches the lift of his crinkling eyes. Will concludes that rosy red and sunshine yellow are the best colors to brush his face.

“Will you tell me the other image you had?”

Will feels himself ease up, the heaviness of the memory evaporating as it was already released and unburdened and Hannibal has taken it with a light heart and now, they are back to their teasing selves. 

“I dare you not to blush.” And there it is, an instant coloring on Hannibal’s cheeks. His other favorite color on him. Will laughs. “I haven’t even told you and already, you’re blushing.”

“I do not blush, Will, I flush.”

Their faces are too close, that’s the problem but neither of them makes a move to create a distance. A mention of blushing might as well bring images of romantic things and that’s exactly what Will saw.

“So, there’s still a crowd outside after you talked to me alone in that conference room, right?”

Hannibal looks perplexed as if trying to recollect if they did something that would be blush worthy. “Yes, the cheers had continued, despite me telling Miriam that you were not feeling well to receive people.”

“And my extremely traitorous empathy decided to open itself and read what people were thinking.”

“If this is another compliment about my awful hair, then I assure you, I am past flushing about that.”

“Oh, this is more than your hair, husband.” Will is surprised how he likes saying the word. It rolls out his tongue as if it’s the most natural thing to say. A darker tint of rouge stains on Hannibal’s cheeks even further. He draws his lips to Hannibal’s ear. “People are imagining us having sex.”

Hannibal snaps his head away and removes his hold on Will’s waist and the pretty color that dotted on Hannibal’s cheeks are drained in an instant. That was not the reaction that Will had expected, he must admit. Did Hannibal suddenly turn into a prudish, proper gentleman the moment Will said the S word? 

“How fully open was your empathy?” Hannibal asks in an uncharacteristically small voice. Will stares blankly at him, trying to figure out what the hell happened that made Hannibal switch places with him as the withering virgin.

“Fully open. Some are imagining us kissing, that nice-looking elderly lady is anyway but others are more in the, uh, amorous territory.”

He wanted to tease Hannibal and go into lengthy detail but, given his reaction, he guessed Miss Pearl Clutcher here is drawing the line in being too overt in sex talk. Quite disappointing, really, since he wants that hand back on his waist and wants to see Hannibal redden and redden until the capillaries on his cheeks explode.

It had been such a ride, from the mixing of boos and coos then a heady, collective swirl of lust. He figured everyone does that at some point in their life, he sure has. That people see a person or a couple and imagine what would they look like if they were, to put it more prudishly, making love. He mentally kicks himself, he should have said ‘making love’ instead of sex, that would have made Hannibal less spooked. 

It all started when Will recalled a very lewd poster a woman made in the old world, something about eating cannibal dick like a cannoli, complete with a very artistic sketch and then he’s back to the present, where a woman is shoving a painting of the Profiler Husbands kissing on top of a cliff to Will’s face, urging him to sign it. Miriam then barked at her, saying that they are not actors or celebrities and therefore, they do not sign autographs. His empathy opened from there and their sexual visions swirl all around like smoke, starting with that kind-faced woman in her twenties, probably just a little older than Abigail and, yeah, she’s also kindly visualizing them both naked, with Hannibal thrusting on top of him and Will wearing what she imagined, is his sweaty, orgasmic face. People are looking at them from head to toe, ass to groin, how they walk, the way they hold each other’s hands, their rings (to which a woman exclaimed: “Oh my God, they’re wearing different rings!”), and of course, whenever they both look at each other. It’s an automatic ripple of swoons.

Up next, Will is wearing only a cowboy hat as he rides Hannibal like he’s a mechanical bull and he resists hissing at the two giddy women sharing that same, oddly specific fantasy. Do women often discuss sexual scenarios of men grinding on top of their fellow men in cowboy hats? Then, a man who kind of resembles Johnny and he might as well be Johnny because well, it is something he would presume Johnny would fantasize: Hannibal behind Will, doing things to him in a position that he’s only seen dogs do. He glowers at him but Not-Johnny is not letting up, he avidly drinks them both in, and, judging by how he pierces through his and Hannibal’s pants, he’s already accurately measured the length and width of their _appendages_.  
  
He wants to find a water spray and spritz Not-Johnny. All of them, for that matter. Such shameful, shameful thoughts. 

Then, the icing on the cake, a term he knows he will hear because he has a husband but didn’t expect to come as soon as this: “See, it’s by the way he walks, Will Graham totally is a _power bottom_.” 

Fan-fucking-tastic. Everyone takes one look at Will and instantly assumes he’s on the receiving end. How fucking small does everyone think he is?

It’s a strange feeling, this mix of adoration, lust, sensationalism and, stranger still, that he is beginning to like it. Especially because the adoration is equal with Hannibal’s. Hannibal is parading him around, pointing at him like he’s won the Nobel Prize the same way as Will is parading Hannibal around like he’s a common schmuck who’s bagged a movie star. 

“Did you feel an invasion of your privacy, Will? It cannot be helped; sexual fantasies are universal. They have seen a pairing whom they admire and since we are husbands here, it is the natural course for them to imagine us in more intimate settings. They want to extend the intimacy into the walls of their minds and in return, they are rewarded with feelings of joy.” 

The lady doth explains too much, he thinks and Hannibal should spare him the lecture on the psychoanalysis of sexual fantasies when he so much as withers at the mere mention of the word sex. He didn’t see that happening while they were at the hospital and why is Hannibal defending these depraved, perverted animals anyway unless…

_Oh!_

Unless he’s a perverted animal himself. He turns his head and Hannibal honest to god _flinches_. “Did you fantasize about us in the walls of _your_ mind, Doctor Lecter?”

“So, you haven’t read mine?” Hannibal’s face is a comical mixture of relief and shyness. 

“Really, Doctor Lecter, thinking of such lewd things.” Will tsks in mock aghast. “You’re just like those people!”

“It can’t be helped, I recognized the unmistakable scent of desire in the air. It was a completely intoxicating experience when it is directed at the two of us. A mixture of an overripe nectarine, ylang-ylang and vinegar.”

“So, you also couldn’t help but supply yourself with visuals of your own?” Will tsks again, and Hannibal’s upper lip gives a twitch.

“Naturally. It’s quite a pity, really, that I do not have visual gifts such as yours. I would very much have enjoyed to see those.”

“It’s a mess in here.” He points to his temple. “If there’s a way, I’d have given it to you a long time ago.”

“Tell me, who were people imagining giving it to whom?” 

There was no way to hide Will’s reddening so he just lets it heat over his ears and cheeks and surrenders to the cruelty of the world. “Who else is smaller in frame, younger and, for them, built closer a woman?”

“Hmm, they might be wrong about that,” Hannibal grins rakishly.

Will feels himself shrink and asks himself, why is this my life? 

“I was standing right next to you. Holding your hand,” Hannibal huffs an affronted breath. “How could you not have read mine? Were theirs more preferable?”

Leave it to Hannibal to be irrationally jealous of those hooligans who had nothing better to do than to play out erotic fantasies of innocent, unassuming men in their heads. He shudders as he recalls a five-person orgy involving the poor Profiler Husbands: a two-women-and-three-men fantasy courtesy of one of Miriam’s FBI trainees.

“It depends, maybe I did see it. What did you imagine us do?” 

“Something that will make even your toes blush, husband dear. It’s better to just show, rather than tell, don’t you agree?”

Will takes that challenge head on. “Oh, what you’ll come up with might be too tame compared to what my _extraordinary_ brain can produce, Doctor. I can do things that will make even your blood blush.”

Hannibal makes a small sound as Will bumps his nose to Hannibal’s. Will loves how distressed he looks, his pupils blown wide and mouth in a pretty O. 

Miriam makes a sharp turn to the right and Will’s lips are pressed against that pretty mouth, the hungriest mouth he’s ever had against his as it greedily captures his lower lip. The car hits a bump and their heads bump along with it. They both pull away, Hannibal says a soft “I apologize, Will,” and Will throws him a shy, ‘it’s alright’ smile.

They look ahead and Miriam’s entering an underground parking of a nondescript white building. They pull up to an empty space, the two other FBI cars sidling alongside theirs. 

“We are being moved,” Hannibal remarks as Miriam gets out and opens the passenger side of the door to remove her things. She doesn’t say anything to them, which meant they must do this all the time, switch vehicles to avoid anyone following them. The door to Hannibal’s side opens and they see Agent Roy give them a curt nod. They both slide out and Hannibal shakes the Agent’s hand as a thank you and Will does the same. They say their thanks to the other agents who got out of their cars to greet them. He quickly grabs Hannibal’s arm to follow Miriam, not caring if he’s being rude, because he doesn’t want to shake all of their hands. One of them had imagined the five-person orgy. God only knows where those hands have been. 

Miriam’s walking to a black, heavily tinted Range Rover and Will inwardly smirks at the pretentiousness. He can’t picture out his pedestrian self, driving something so expensive. One wheel probably costs more than Will’s sweet Volvo. But he must admit, it looks quite imposing and secure, it’s probably bulletproofed, too. He’ll manage, of course. 

They take the back seat and once settled; Miriam speeds out to a different exit. Chamber music blasts from the speakers once again. The world felt quieter, as the number of people surrounding them are reduced further. Soon, (he hopes, anyway) they will only have Miriam and Abigail in the house. Then just Abigail. Then, just the two of them. 

Hannibal seems to be in the same contemplative countenance. He’s gazing at Will’s side of the window and at the corner of his eye, he catches the other man glancing at his face, then at the window, as if unable to let go that a picture of Will and the irrevocable slice of freedom would go together. Will wants to ask him how he is and he thinks of other phrasings aside from: ‘You OK there, buddy?”. 

How are you finding the view?   
How is this making you feel?

He reads the other man the best he can and it seems that he’s just content at having Will as the main focus while the backdrop of his beloved Baltimore unfolds behind him. 

Will looks out the window and tries to remember if there was anything different between the old and the new world. He mentally shakes himself on the surrealness, the absurdity of it all. This isn’t a different country. This is still America, this is Baltimore, just in another world. Another world where people actually like them. He thinks a good, proper thank you to his janky brain is long overdue. It had gone through the terrible ordeal of being crazy and maybe it has reached its maximum capacity to give a flying fuck about facts and logic and so, it had evolved and simply accepted the cannon balls thrown at him. He can’t say the same for his buddy, though. Will a freak out apply to him? Will a Hannibal Lecter a freak-out consist of a mass of bodies at his wake?

“There’s the Opera House, same as the one before. Everything is placed the same.” Hannibal tells him. Will finds it charming of how excited he sounds, like a child who finally sees the outline of Disneyland after a long drive of flat lands. 

“Takes me back.”

“You’ve been to the opera?” Hannibal looks at him sharply, as if to say how dare Will go on opera dates without him.

“Not for entertainment. To investigate that human cello, Tobias Budge’s work.”

“Oh, Tobias,” Hannibal exclaims, as if reminiscing an old friend. “Those were an ode to me, you know. He was a suitor of the Ripper.”

“Rejected suitor,” Will corrects him. “Rejected him so much, you killed him.”

“Yes, well, we met at the opera. We had dinner at the house a few days after.”

“You went with him? Dinner? When?”

“He came with Francis Devereaux then. We were having dinner while you were busy kissing Alana Bloom.” Hannibal quirks up at Will’s growing frown. “Don’t be jealous, darling, I’ll wine and dine and take you to the opera, if you like. And you’ll have the most enviable honor of sitting right next to me.” 

“I wouldn’t be the first. I bet you say that to all your serial killer suitors.”

Hannibal seems to not have heard him and points eagerly at another building, a sports complex. 

“That is also an old haunt. Where I take my night swims.”

“Never been.” Will’s feathers are still ruffled at the thought of Hannibal and Tobias having their evil minds culminative dinner, Tobias probably sitting on Will’s seat and maybe if Tobias had been more interesting, like, say, also have powers of empathy, Hannibal might’ve replaced Will. He would have been the one to be hit in the head with that black marble stag and Tobias would have been the one to hear Hannibal tell him that ‘he appreciates his company’. 

“You have. By proxy.”

Will immediately connects. “Oh, that’s the place. Take me there sometime?”

“Of course, I can even show you where the magic happened.”

“That would have been your place of death, Doctor Lecter. It’s a pity my poor substitute didn’t pull through.”

“A pity indeed. It was a disastrous delivery of a reckoning. Perhaps I am just meant to die in the hands of the genuine article.”

“Too bad you put me in jail. I would have succeeded.”

“Will you also choose to put a noose around my neck, spread my arms in a crucifixion, slash my wrists so I will be weakening from the blood loss, while I dangle precariously over a bucket wearing only my swimming trunks?”

Will hitches a breath at the image. “Can you do that to me? I want a taste of my own reckoning.”

Hannibal looks like the wind had been knocked out from him. Looks at Will like he has lifted the shroud from his face to reveal that he actually has the face of God. “You will look beautiful in such close presence to death. And you will defy it with such grace. How are you so wonderfully perfect for me?” Hannibal continues in a string of foreign-worded declarations and Will just takes it all in silently and lets the wash of worship cover him. Hannibal ends it with a kiss on Will’s forehead.

Then, Will sees it, behind Hannibal’s wispy hair. “Your house!” There was no mistaking that scarlet shingled, blood smeared outer walled manor. It was the first time Will ever passed by it without ever stopping. 

Hannibal turns around but Miriam just breezes past Number 5 Chandler Square with nary a glance. The look of horror is instant on Hannibal’s face. It’s most likely another pretentious house but they’d both been looking forward to only one particular pretentious house and see what they (if any) have done with the place.

Miriam swerves right, and she enters a driveway of a modest one-level bungalow. Hannibal is looking contemptuously at it as if it has done him a great offense. Will can agree, though, he doesn’t see Hannibal or Will, famous as they are here, living in such a tight space. Will’s farm house seemed more spacious than that. Maybe they can move back to Wolf Trap and he remembers that he is yet to know if he still has old home. He hopes he does. He imagines bumping into Hannibal in that shoebox and already, he feels like the walls are closing in.

Miriam is pressing a button on her phone and the garage door opens. She drives forward and the car seems to keep moving, down a slope. It’s an underground parking, Will realizes, when the car didn’t seem to stop when it should. Lights automatically turn on the moment the Range Rover enters and takes its place beside a Bentley and, thank the heavens and hells, Will’s sweet Volvo! A sleek black Ducati also stands beside a black and white striped Mini Cooper. 

Hannibal makes a face after he reaches forward to open Will’s door. “Be careful, you just had surgery,” Will scolds him like a proper husband. But he’s pretty excited, too. They might still be in Hannibal’s house after all, with that little house used just for their passageway. Hannibal’s hands are on his shoulders as he slowly maneuvers himself out of the car. The garage is pretty spacious, it can even fit one more vehicle and there’s a floor to ceiling shelf at one corner. A door with a combination pad at the side is at the center and Miriam is already punching out the code. 

“93405,” they both murmur to each other and Will laughs at how they both share like-minded priorities. 

Hannibal walks over to the motorcycle and tells Will that he had one just like it when he was in Paris.

Then, Will hears it. That sweet, sweet sound. 

Barking.

“They’re waiting for you.” Hannibal takes Will’s hand and they rush to the door and they collide with Miriam and Abigail.

“Dads!” Abigail jumps and kisses them both. Will’s already met Abigail but he hasn’t met his dogs yet, so, if she could just move, his reunion with his friends would be faster. Hannibal seems to take the hint and pulls Abigail toward him to ask something Will didn’t bother to catch because dogsdogsdogsdogs!

He steps in to a food pantry and the barking is just beyond the door, he just knows it. He follows Miriam and yes, he wants to drop to his knees and say the rosary because this is Hannibal’s Kitchen of Hell, down to the last stitch, ocean of blood optional. He looks behind him and sees Hannibal’s expression of absolute delight. They meet eyes, mirroring each other’s joy. 

But first, dogs. 

He turns to the sound again, to his left and he’s surprised to find another door. This wasn’t there in the past world, the entryway from the kitchen to the main hallway had been open. So many doors just to get to his friends. God. He slides it open and he is surrounded by a flurry of furry balls, the best creatures that God has ever made. He drops to his knees and he is immediately licked and sniffed and sees wildly wagging tails as they all vie for his happy attention and they have it, they make him just so fucking happy. Patty is also a jumper here and she claws for him to be carried and when he does, she speedily laps on the bandage of his cheek. He moves his face and gives her his good cheek. “Hello, baby!”, he coos and then Winston nudges at his elbow and he strokes him gently while he cradles Patty in his arm like a football. Grover barks and smells his armpit and he marvels at the accuracy: that’s where Grover likes to smell him too. Buster and Sophie seemed to be at a tie at trying very hard to be nonchalant at his presence and it’s typical for them, too, how they want Will to come to them first. He whistles and they both perk up from their circling. “Come here, you two!” They jump at him with such force that he’s knocked back and his still tender shoulder protests with jolt of pain but it’s gone the moment the two of his most petulant pets give him a riotous embrace. Sophie makes an adorable whimper as she buries her nose in his belly. Buster allows himself to be stroked then gives Will a sniffy greeting, licks his neck once and saunters off. Patty jumps from his arm and, in a very Patty behavior, goes to nibble on his sock.

They are the same faithful friends, with the same doggy personalities as if they also crossed with him from Old World/Wolf Trap to New World/Hannibal’s Home. He will need more time to get used to the idea of seeing them here, the same as he should get used to seeing himself residing in this house. They are here to help him navigate. His wonderful furballs here to rally around his feet, here to make him less alone, make him feel more like himself. 

If Dear Husband gives him a hard time, he has an option to ‘ _release the hounds_ ’ on him. They might look cute and well-behaved but they can also turn into feral attack dogs when Will makes a special whistle. He makes a mental note to test if it works here and he’ll show Hannibal what they’re capable of, in case Hannibal still has plans of turning him into steak. But that bastard was right though, they’d still recognize him as simply a man who loves his dogs and it really is etched into the essence of his very soul. Sometimes, he can be a good psychiatrist. Where is that man?

He gently drops Sophie to stand up and turn around, only to see Abigail in front of the closed kitchen door. He whistles for Patty to stop feasting on his sock and worries for a moment if this dog has a taste for human meat the same as his Old-World Patty did. She had been the one who was most bloodied up and most satiated from their dinner party with Mason Verger. 

Abigail picks up Patty and strokes her amber and cream corkscrew hair. “Daddy said he wants to have a moment in there.”

It’s not surprising that Hannibal would want to have a moment alone with his beloved kitchen, as it is the closest to what Hannibal would call his pet. While Will is being kissed by his dogs, a normal man’s definition of pets, Hannibal is probably smooching his knives, caressing his spice rack and slow dancing with his oven. 

Will looks at the door. “This door is a good idea. To keep the dogs away.”

Patty is licking Abigail’s lips and Will pulls her back, wary that this little doggie might progress from licking to chomping her lip. In the past world, he had even warned Molly and Walter to stay away from Patty if they have open cuts on their skin. Can’t be too careful. 

Abigail rolls her eyes and smirks. “I didn’t put a door there for the dogs, Dad. Since you were gone, only Buster risked going there but that was only to get his ball. Couldn’t get out of there fast enough. I still had to give him a scolding, though, poor boy. The rest of them are good, no one still dares to foray into Daddy’s sacred kitchen.”

Will nods, pleased that his dogs are also well-trained on house space boundaries. His Old-World dogs weren’t allowed to go the small length of the kitchen, too, especially when he was preparing their food. 

“So, this door might not be necessary.”

Her face falls, the same exact expression she and Miriam had when they found out that Hannibal didn’t wear his wedding ring. Patty turns around to give Will a puppy glare. Winston howls at him from Abigail’s leg. Buster bumps his nose on his shin. 

What did he say wrong now? 

“Oh, Dad, so you are having problems.”

A removal of the kitchen door equates having marital problems now?

“What does –.” He stops, and allows himself time to think what kitchen doors symbolize to a marriage. Was a lack of a kitchen door ever argued upon when he and Molly were married? Kitchens are usually open spaces and the door will only hinder the delivery of food from the kitchen to the dining room. It wasn’t there to keep the dogs out, as Abigail had stated. A door would have been beneficial in the Old World, though. On that fateful night, he and Abigail could have locked Hannibal out until he ran out of steam. They could have dealt things like normal, sane adults by screaming behind the door until they come to a resolution and Will and Abigail wouldn’t have to go through the unfortunate position of lying and dying in their own pool of blood. 

Her eyes are starting to shine with tears and he gives up. He’s facing a blank wall and he’s fresh out of guesses. “Why do you still think that?”

He wanted to say ‘how does that make you feel?’ but he’s not that cruel. It’s not Abigail’s fault she’s facing an impostor who doesn’t know that kitchen doors equate to wedding rings.

“Don’t you think I wouldn’t notice? Whenever I come home, the door’s always open and you’re both just there, cooking.”

So far, Abigail is making sense so that means something is still not right. This world is harder to decipher than one of Hannibal’s obscure allegories.

Will schools his expression as a father intent on hearing his daughter out and nods his head to tell her, ‘go on’. _Go on and please give me more information to go with, Abigail._

“And it’s been a month since I saw that thing closed,” she sniffs and Patty licks her tears. Will takes the dog from her hands and releases her to the floor and she promptly gnaws on his sock. He makes a for-Patty-only-whistle and she stops and dashes away. Only Winston stays to listen, giving Will a sympathetic, _poor stupid and confused human_ look. 

“Has the desire waned between you two? Do you need to go to a sex therapist? You can tell me, Dad, you know that. That’s why I proposed that you guys go to the cliff house, so you’d relive your days after your divorces were finalized. Your ten days there, barely eating, barely walking, as you said, was one of the best times of your life. Please tell me it helped. That it fixed your dry spell, that this door would be closed from time to time now?”

“It did,” Will says instantly so she wouldn’t suspect that he didn’t comprehend what she was asking. This was too much information and not the information he prefers because what does the kitchen door being open have to do with their sex life? And a ten-day sexathon? No wonder Will couldn’t fucking walk. And yes, thank you again Abigail for providing relevant information: that he truly is the power bottom in this marriage. Fan-fucking-tastic.

“An open door doesn’t mean it’s a dry spell, Abigail,” Will manages to say because still, he is grasping at straws to what exactly are they talking about. If only, it revealed how disturbingly open they are to their daughter about their sex life. No child has to be subjected to monitoring the sexual dynamics of their parents, not even a child raised with gore and murder like Abigail. 

“So, you won’t remove the door?” She gives him a hopeful smile. “I always thought it was a great anniversary gift. Daddy was kind of shy about it but you couldn’t stop laughing. Then, you both started closing it so I guess it’s serving its purpose.”

A kitchen door as a gag gift? Alright, why not, he’ll give this new world a pass. It has its quirks but it’s been good to him so far, giving him his dogs and all that. “It’s a good door, sturdy. Mahogany wood. It’s a sliding door so it won’t get in the way. The color blends with the walls. You chose it well. Good job, Abigail.” He’s ran out of compliments to say to a door so he just blows out an exhausted breath and decides to just look at Winston’s sympathetic face. _Thanks, buddy._

“Yeah, how dare you remove it, after all the stuff you made me witness. I mean, no offense, but how much sex can two people have? Remember that one night, I was going to get a glass of water and I didn’t know you guys were bent over the counter and so when I saw you two, I dropped it and you jumped so fast that you stepped on a broken glass and you were bleeding so bad that we had to lay you out on the counter so Daddy could give you stitches. That was when I told myself that there has to be a sign if you guys were feeling the mood. And you always seem to feeling it in there. I tried walking really loud or even singing before going inside but you’re both so into it, I think you drown out outside noise. And I’d always ruin the momentum when I walk in and I didn’t wanna keep doing that. I’ve probably seen you both in different stages of undress and in positions I’ve never thought were humanly possible, it’s crazy. At least with a door, you’d warn a girl first.” She laughs and Will joins her with his own maniacal one. Why does God hate him?

“Don’t worry about us, Abigail. We’re doing well.” 

“So, there’s really no cheating? Because I know Daddy would never do that to you, you are it for him. There will never be anyone else for him but you.”

Will is the one who has questionable morals in this world, really? Everyone should visit the Old World and see who among them has the propensity to be of dubious character. Though, that was quite moving and he wants that to be the truth. Held up as Law. There shouldn’t be a world where Hannibal would ever take a fancy on anyone other than Will. That world should be burned to the ground and should never be allowed to exist. 

“I can’t imagine anyone else I’d have with me to explore worlds other than him, Abigail. And I’m sorry if we’ve been such animals. It’s a good thing you’re going to be a doctor, having us as fathers is not for the faint-hearted.”

So, this is the answer to the kitchen door riddle. That they’re animals. Not much of a riddle after all. Animals indeed, can’t keep it in their pants like a bunch of depraved, hormone-riddled teenagers. Although he thinks that’s quite unfair to teenagers everywhere. Based on Abigail’s long-suffering narrative, they cannot be placed in the same category because at least teenagers can function enough to go to school and play sports. But them, middle-aged men, who should be more stable in controlling their sexual urges, deserve to belong in a category of a lower standing. Rabbits. That’s right, the most libidinous of all creatures, just going at it in open kitchens, scarring their daughter’s eyeballs for life, once again proving that Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter, present or previous versions, do not deserve human forms.

Abigail wraps him in a hug. “Oh, Dad, just as long as you’re still both crazy about each other. I could never see you both winding down with the physical stuff, you know. And, I’m sorry again I doubted you. The sparks were back, like you were rediscovering each other, I saw that in the hospital, so I do think it was mission accomplished. Even if you both got injured in the end.”

“It took a shared fight and staring back at our mortality to realize that I should live my life as honestly as I can, Abigail, and this is why I chose to be here, with the two of you. And the dogs.”

“God forbid Will Graham forgets his dogs. Thank you for choosing us, Dad.” She looks at him with red-rimmed, watery eyes and he kisses her forehead. Winston rubs his snout to his leg, as if to tell him he’s forgiven as well.

The infamous door opens. Look who’s finally done fellating the entire drawer of his silverware. 

Still, it’s a relief that Hannibal’s not around for this conversation. It’s bad enough that Hannibal’s pretty much confessed that he’s fantasizing about Will _that way_ , it would be even more hellish (for Will anyway) if Hannibal gets the idea that they should defile the kitchen _that way_ too, for authenticity’s sake. Hannibal’s kitchens have seen their fair share of nightmarish situations, murder or sex, it doesn’t matter. It deserves a goddamn break. 

“What is happening?” Hannibal takes in the scene and gives them a fond smile.

“We’re just having a father-daughter moment,” Will answers, letting go of Abigail’s hold.

Hannibal is looking at the door and he runs his hand over the outline. “Is this really necess-“

Will says a quick ‘excuse me’ to Abigail and pushes Hannibal inside and slides the door shut.  
Great, now she’s thinking he’s initiating for them to have sex. There’s nothing to be done about that. At least he’s starting the charade early.

“If you value your life, you will never question the presence of this door to Abigail or Miriam again.”

Hannibal steps forward, as if he hasn’t heard Will’s panicked plea and just simply gazes at Will with a wistful, dreamy expression.

“Hannibal, did you hear me?”

“Yes, that the door will be good to keep the animals away from the kitchen.”

 _So that animals of a special kind can be animals behind the door_ , his brain helpfully tells him. 

“No, just pretend it doesn’t exist, alright? You can keep it open when no one is around. But during dinner time when Abigail’s here, you can keep it closed but only if I’m also here so she’d conclude, well, she’ll think that we’re in, uhm, good terms. This is for our cover-“

“Will,” Hannibal interrupts. 

“You have to remind me to keep the door locked, maybe three times a week, that’s realistic, right? For middle-aged men-“

“Will.” His name is spoken firmer this time.

“What?”

“May I hug you?”

Will looks at where he is and who is in front of him so, naturally, he looks at Hannibal’s hands. To see if there’s any sharp objects lurking about, ready to slice skins and end lives. Hannibal’s marked smile on his abdomen twitches at the memory. 

Hannibal barks a laugh and splays out his palms for Will’s inspection. “No surprises this time.”

Will nods and Hannibal’s arms folds into his shoulders, clutching him so tight and so heavily that Will has to step back to gain his footing. Will puts his hand on Hannibal’s waist and pulls him closer until the scars on their bellies align. He gazes at the kitchen and, like Hannibal’s office, he wonders if they can diminish old hurts in this kitchen if they display new acts of tenderness.

“This is not the home that I once had, Will. There is a section in the refrigerator devoted to store ingredients to feed your dogs. There are beverages that I would not ever acquire for myself.”

“Is this your way of saying that you found stuff that isn’t fancy so therefore it must be mine?”

Hannibal’s chest rumbles with a laugh and Will feels it vibrate to his heart. “Therefore, they are yours and furthermore, it indicates that it is not my home but ours.”

Will’s shoulders are being grasped upon with such fervor that he rolls with the motion and wraps his arms around Hannibal’s waist as tight as he possibly can. This is the first embrace that they shared without an ounce of blood shed. 

“No escaping me and my dogs, Doctor.” 

Hannibal’s hair tickles his ear as he nods. “I wouldn’t dream of it. I would like to ask you something, Will, and I hope you will ask the same.”

They both break away to look at each other and Will’s breath is knocked out at how intensely Hannibal is gazing at him.

With love.

There’s no other word for it and he won’t try to mask it into any other meaning than that. It just is. It’s just love.

“Will Graham, will you come home with me?”

“Yes, I will.” Will smiles as wide as his mouth would allow and beams and glows as much as his entire being is open enough to show. This is his truth. That backward and forward in time, even if he’s walking on broken glass, he walks toward Hannibal still. 

“Hannibal Lecter, will you come home with me?”

“Yes. I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, these are just shenanigans with the door and all that but it's one way of letting Will know that the kitchen will not judge them if ever they decide to close the door and do things for authenticity's sake. Thank you so much for taking the time to read this, leaving kudos, subscribing and of course, to the lovelies who left comments. You light up my life!  
> Song title from the Foo Fighters  
> P.S. Sorry for the late update.


	8. Honey Whisky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More dogs!  
> Panicked!Will!  
> Jealous!Will  
> They move from one part of the house to another and can ya tell, they are crazy about each other?

“I saw your reunion with your pack. How joyful you look. There was a moment that I cannot tell you all apart. It was a happy blur of tongues, tails and fur.”

“Just as you told me it would. Though I do not appreciate the implication that I look like a dog, Doctor.”

Hannibal must have found what he said endearing because he’s gently pressed to the door and the back of his head makes a soft thud. Hannibal brushes a lock of hair from his forehead and grazes his thumb across his jawline.

“I would have thought it is the highest form of flattery for Will Graham. With mangy hair as yours, Winston could be your brother.”

“So, Winston and I are mangy mutts, huh? But he is a handsome dog so I will take it that as a compliment. I thought, with my hair, I would have taken after Patty.”

“I hope you will not take offense and I say this with love, but I’m afraid you could never have Patty’s easygoing, devil-may-care nature. You are Winston, morose and eternally plagued with unfathomable terrors.”

“And I suppose you are Patty? You took the devil-may-care attitude a little too far. Although, it fits, as she’s the most cannibalistic of all my canines.”

“Indeed, she was the first one to jump up at a slice of cheek.”

“You had them to a T when you described them to me at the hospital. I meant to ask; how do you know so much about them? Was that included in the emergency Google?”

“Alana portrayed their characters for me. She had after all, spent a significant time to know them while you were indisposed in prison.”

“Oh.” He thinks of that time when he was locked up, then, when Hannibal was giving Alana ‘his best’. “While you were…”

“No, not then.” Hannibal flashes him a wicked grin and Will regrets showing him a face of narrow-eyed, open jealousy. “It was when I was incarcerated, she offered me a bargain. That I successfully complete five psychological profiles of cold cases and, in turn, she would describe each pet and its characteristic in full detail. I have never cared to draw animals, Will. You continued to challenge me, even from so far away.”

“You have…” He imagines their conversation. Alana laying out her proposal with a face carefully devoid of expression. Hannibal, in turn, would simply nod. Alana sitting across the glass pane as she regales each of his pet’s personalities while Hannibal’s pencil scratches each furry face to paper. For a moment, Will couldn’t breathe. He clutches at the hem of Hannibal’s jacket. “You made a drawing of each of my dogs?”

Hannibal’s smile is full, eyes glimmering, clearly pleased with Will’s hitching of a stunned breath. It is like Hannibal has clicked the capture button on the camera of his eyes like Will’s response is worthy to be immortalized.

“The setting is entirely in Wolf Trap,” Hannibal croons, bringing his mouth closer to his ear, like a man whispering sweet nothings to a lover. He lifts his arm towards Will’s head, caging him. “Winston, ever the guardian, is on the front porch, awaiting his master’s arrival. Sophie is nestled by the fire, tucked in her bed full of blankets. Even in such comfort, her eyes are manic and one ear is raised for calls of curiosities. Buster is mid-air to catch his fetching stick, with the backdrop of winter-boned trees behind him. Alana said that Grover loves the water and he is your companion while you fish, so he is at your stream, splashing after scattering trout. Patty is inside your shed, donning a very satisfied smile on top of a pile of bones.”

“Where are they? Why didn’t you send them to me?” He says it as a breathless demand. It all sounded so beautifully done and so, dare he say, lovingly made, that his chest feels a tightening ache at the thought that Hannibal had drawn his _soul_ , because his dog’s names are indelibly etched in the make and model of William Graham.

He looks at Hannibal’s hands and coat lapels as if they were hidden there and this should be his cue to hand them over.

Hannibal tilts his head back to look at him. “I’m a selfish man, Will. I do not want anyone to see your reaction to the drawings but me. I had been tempted to give the sketches to you during your visits but all you seem to talk about was the Red Dragon. Never even asked how I was. Or if I had drawings of your dogs lying about.”

Will lifts his good arm and slots it to Hannibal’s shoulder. “That was quite rude of me. If only I’d known to ask.”

“If only.” Hannibal tsks and playfully shakes his head at Will’s apparent lack of initiative. “So, I instructed they were only to be sent to you after my demise.”

“You would have to die before I could see them? Alana should have told me, if it meant killing you, I would do it. Your drawings sound lovely.”

“Thank you. They were one of my best works, if I do say so myself.”

“You are quite the dramatic, aren’t you, Doctor? You wouldn’t be able to watch me look at them anyway, on account of you being dead.”

“On the contrary, I plan to be a phantom,” Hannibal tells him matter-of-factly as if he’s certain that that is an option in the afterlife. Well, they are in the afterlife, in a way, and Hannibal as a creepy ghost following Will around his cabin with Molly seems ordinary compared to the landscape they found themselves into. “And I would witness your devastation upon hearing the news of my death. I would be quite a happy ghost to see you fall apart the moment you see my drawings.”

“Maybe in this world, no one has to die just so I could see your work? If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to see them while both of us are alive and breathing.”

“I will draw them as residents of Number Five Chandler Square as they have a different home now. I will find areas in the home that is most suited for their background.”

“Can you and the dogs give me a tour of the place?”

“Of course, I wouldn’t want my darling husband to get lost in his own home. You’ve only been in the dining room and the kitchen, if I recall.”

Will lifts an eyebrow and flicks his thumb under Hannibal’s collar. “That’s because I only come here for the food, Doctor Lecter.”

Hannibal bites his lower lip at that. “So, you have never considered traversing over to the sitting area and enjoying my company over a digestif?”

“Your private company should only be shared in your office, Doctor. It’s dangerous to overstay in the lion’s den, the lion might still be hungry. That is why I leave after I’d had my fill.”

“Afraid I might take you upstairs?”

“Not upstairs, but downstairs, where you keep your very sharp tools.”

“I think you’ll find that my tools upstairs are more enjoyable, my dear.”

“Wait-" he gives him his harshest glare. “You went to your basement without me!”

“No,” comes Hannibal’s swift reply. “I was merely looking for the latch and I was unsuccessful. The layout is quite different from mine. I do not even know if there is one.”

“That means you tried to find it but you couldn’t so might as well wait for me.”

“Will,” He runs his hands over Will’s arms in a soothing motion. “I have every intention of discovering every bit of this world with you because every sliver of happiness you allow yourself to show, I am hungry to witness it for my own. Any space might as well be a blank wall if there is no you to fill it.” 

“Alright, that was a good answer.”

“Am I forgiven?”

There’s a timid knock, just past his right ear and he hears girls’ hushed and urgent voices behind it.

“You ask for my permission before you enter a new room.”

“Of course.

Another knock and it had done it, it had finally burst the bubble that seemed to encapsulate them, reminding them that they simply can’t be left alone.

Hannibal huffs a short and then a long, seemingly frustrated breath and hits his forehead against the mahogany. A click and slide, and the door opens. Hannibal had pushed it rather hard and the bang echoes throughout the cavernous walls of the kitchen. Will stumbles back and grips Hannibal’s shoulder at the sudden loss of surface. Hannibal catches him with a swoop of his right arm across his waist.

“What?” It was delivered sharp and with teeth and he hears two girls give identical gasps.

“We’re sorry, we just had to. You have an interview, Doctor Lecter.”

“You might strain yourselves,” comes Abigail’s tiny voiced excuse.

It would appear like he and Hannibal were slow dancing and, given the history of activities in this kitchen, doing wanton, utterly _vile_ things. Will turns around and Hannibal just slots his arm across his chest.

They are both scanned, from the state of their hair, not dishevelled, to which Abigail responds with a small frown. To their coats, shirts and pants, unwrinkled and did not appear to be removed in favor to free quivering flesh, to which Miriam responds with an approving nod. To their faces, makeup probably still intact and mouths not red and raw from an intense exchange. Miriam nods even more.

There is a hard tension in Hannibal’s chest against his shoulder blades and Will realizes he did not appreciate the interruption.

“We’re so sorry,” they both say at once, bravely looking at Hannibal head on. All five dogs pool at their feet with identical apologetic expressions.

It was better that they were interrupted anyway and Will leans back in an attempt to calm and appease the marble statue behind him. Because, really, if they weren’t reminded there were other people existing in this world, they would have gone on talking by that door until they dropped dead.

“We’ll follow every timeline down to the last millisecond,” Miriam promises.

“An hour, it will be done and we’ll have dinner,” Abigail implores.

“An hour more and we’ll go to bed,” Will adds and the two girls flash Will grateful smiles. He assumed they saw Hannibal’s features thawing at Will’s mention of ‘bed’ because they give sighs of relief. The arm on his chest gives him a squeeze.

“Alright,” Hannibal says, with exaggerated agreeableness.

Both girls make an about face and walks quickly ahead, as if to hurry them along before Hannibal changes his mind.

The five dogs remain and gives Hannibal an appraising look.

“Hey, guys, this is Hannibal,’ Will says once the girls are out of sight.

“Hello,” Hannibal says, offering them a cordial smile, well, as far cordiality can go in Hannibal’s limited host of facial expressions.

Five pairs of eyes remain fixed on him, making no further movements, as if to say ‘you’re going to have to do better than that.’

“Dads!” Abigail gives them a pleading look from the end of the hall then disappears. They were both still standing before the dogs, posed like a cover of a romance novel.

“Excuse me,” Hannibal politely tells the pack. Sophie gives a yelp but none of them move.

“Tough crowd, my dogs, husband.”

Hannibal turns to Will, the end of his nose bumping his cheek. “It seems I have six dogs to win over.”

“If you’re good, the top dog will put in a good word for you.” He loves how his pack is wary of Hannibal, that even if he has captured their images on paper, and Will is wrapped in his arms like a swooning Victorian heroine, they still know where their loyalties lie. Really just the best friends anyone could ask for. Will makes a whistle and they all turn and dash off.

“You have to teach me how you prepare their meals, then.”

“That’s a good start.”

“The way to a dog’s heart and all that.”

“I hope you finally understood that saying.”

“That was all I have been trying to do whenever I have you in my dining table, Will,” Hannibal says indignantly, his arms tensing up. For a moment, he thought Hannibal might put him in a chokehold and just hoist his unconscious body upstairs. Or downstairs, if he could find the latch. He regrets shooing his dogs away.

“No, you thought the way to a man’s heart was stabbing his stomach. It’s _through_ his stomach, Doctor, no gutting necessary.”

Will knows he will get a laugh with that one, and their bodies vibrate with it, knows he’ll get a kiss out of that, too, and he’s right, a light one is planted on his temple.

Will walks forward and they both step in sync, looking ridiculous, like conjoined twins in tandem bicycles. They glance at the closed dining room door and exchange a look as if to say, ‘later’.

“Stop laughing at my disembowelment, “he scolds, because his should-be-sympathetic spouse here is still quite very much amused at Will’s jab at his own personal misery.

They reach the end of the dark hallway and brightness assaults their eyes, as if a stark fluorescent light is shining directly over their heads. Upon instinct, they both let go of the hold they have on each other to cup a hand over their faces.

The wall panels are neat and white, with thin black rectangular mouldings. The yellow light of the sun only increased the brilliance of the room and catches the shine of the marble floors, and he notes that it has the same geometric pattern as Hannibal’s Old-World home. If the pristine approach of the interiors were anything to go by, it would seem that their previous inhabitants had nothing to hide whereas Hannibal’s Old-World walls were definitely an indication that its master was concealing his malevolence underneath all that baroque and damask wallpaper. Two stag horns are in prominent display over the center wall, one in ebony black and the other in ivory white. The center table holds a bouquet of enormous red and white roses.

“I think we would need sunglasses whenever we pass by here, Will.”

Will couldn’t help but nod in agreement.

He sees Abigail enter the sitting room, a room he only gave a passing glance before because he would always immediately walk to the west side of the house, where the scent of Hannibal’s food would beckon and make him to forget about the dark room with the pretentious black and gold piano at the far end.

“Did someone die?” Will gasps.

Hannibal doesn’t say anything and Will clutches at Hannibal’s arm as they slowly walk forward, because, beyond the arch, he could only see flowers. They stop at the doorway and take in the room. There are bouquets on top of every raised surface. He doesn’t know much about flowers but he sees that they are of the expensive, custom-ordered kind, with pink and yellow roses full and as large as his fist. Wreath arrangements of orchids, peonies and gardenias on stilts stand behind a purple velvet two-seater couch and a coffee table full of tulips complete the floral regalia.

He’s only seen flowers of that number in only one place: a funeral parlour where a body is lying in state.

“Are we dead, Hannibal? Is this our wake?” Hannibal remains mute and his only response is to take Will’s hand, as if they are approaching an unknown horror, about to twist the knob to open a monster’s dungeon.

Will scans for a coffin and knows Hannibal is doing the same, and he waits for any moment that the reality will come crashing down and they will come to realize that the universe was playing a cruel cosmic joke this whole time. He holds his breath and the sound of his beating heart is pulsing loudly in his ears.

This is it. Their reckoning. Chilton’s doing, probably, here to graft their skin and, after, place them in wooden coffins to incinerate them alive. Or Jack will jump from the curtains and tell them it was a prank all along, motherfuckers. Maybe the girls will slash their throats or Miriam would chainsaw Hannibal’s arm. Or they may have already been poisoned and once they drop dead, they will be positioned on that sofa like one of those Victorian England ‘memento mori’ death photographs.

Where are his dogs? Maybe it’s not too late to grab them, Hannibal can take Sophie and Buster and he’ll take Patty and Winston. Grover is as heavy as a small horse so maybe they’d just ride on his back.

He gives out a sneeze and Hannibal follows with his own. It’s from all those flowers, probably poisonous, the lot of them. Miriam hands them a box of tissues and they both take one. She doesn’t kill them or wait for their bodies to drop. She readies a tiny bin and they drop their tissues there.

They both know the girls are telling them something but he and Hannibal head on to the nearest arrangement, where there is a card tied to a stem. He looks around and every bouquet has one. He plucks and opens.

_The City of Baltimore and its constituents wishes Special Agents Hannibal Lecter and William Graham a speedy convalescence._

“It’s a get-well-soon card.” He thumbs over the word ‘agent’.

Will reads it again just to make sure that the script will not change and it won’t say ‘you’ve been dead this whole time, asshole’.

He finally releases the breath he’d been holding and his knees that had been in danger of giving way, finally aligns itself solidly to the floor. 

“A get-well card!”

They turn their heads and lock eyes and wraps their arms around each other in relief.

“We’re alive!” he exclaims as if their lives have indeed just been threatened. He leans back to look at Hannibal but doesn’t remove his hold on his shoulder. “Congratulations for being an FBI Special Agent, Doctor.” It does sound strange to have him referred as an Agent when, in truth, he should only be considered as an agent of the chaotic sort.

“You continue to remain ridiculous, Will. Of course, we are not, you were overreacting.”

“Me? You couldn’t even speak!”

“I was merely confounded.”

“How fucked up are we that the only kind of flowers we know are for funerals?”

“I did gift you flowers, in the cavern of that man’s rib cage. I have even attached him to a cherry blossom tree. All of these pale in comparison to what I have designed for you.”

“Weren’t those flowers poisonous? And you are not helping our case, here, that flowers for us equate corpse art decorations. Healthy people send flowers to express thoughtfulness.” He doesn’t know why he’s trying to tell himself he should be mentally healthy, now, of all times, when he’s beyond help in that matter but his interpretation of the flowers did quite shake his foundations a bit. He’s mostly embarrassed that he is quick to fall to fear-based assumptions. 

“Oh, I was expressing complete thoughtfulness when I created that installation for you. Do you know how difficult it was to procure those flowers?”

That is beside the point and again, Hannibal is competing against, what, the people of Baltimore? On who had given Will the best flowers? And Will is the one who’s ridiculous!

“It was beautifully designed." Will admits. "In my mind, I put a shell-full of flowers for his heart.”

“So, you have given me flowers as well?” Hannibal’s eyes sparkle with hope and until now, he had never thought that grotesque cannibals could be such hopeless romantics.

Will hasn’t thought of it that way so maybe he wasn’t thoroughly as fucked up as he thought he was. That he also is capable of interpreting and giving flowers as symbols of friendship.

“I guess I have.”

Hannibal grasps Will’s head with both hands. “May I express five seconds of thankfulness?”

“Yes, you may.”

Their lips meet and Will forgets to count. He has never kissed a man before and he’s only doing this for, uhm, authenticity’s sake and for Abigail and Miriam, so they won’t cry again (or so he tells himself), so he gives it as good as he is getting and, man, is he getting the good stuff. That is one wicked, wicked tongue flicking from such rapturous, lush lips and Will does not know what to focus more on because that tongue is inscribing promises on how well it would do in exploring places in his body other than his mouth but those lips also compete, because they can also capture breaths and pull tongues and consume mouths. He rasps out a breath and smirks at the thought that even Hannibal’s lips and tongue are competing on which is better in pleasuring Will. But they both need this; he feels it whenever their mouths slot together and when they hitch their breaths when coming up for air. Is there a psychology behind the thought of funerals to make perfectly sane men want to lock lips like their lives depend on it? Will pulls back gently because more of this will frankly kill him and Hannibal gives him a smitten, cherry-lipped smile. He likes how Hannibal’s face is set against the flowers, like he is a mythical creature luring Will (to his doom) into his Midsummer Night’s Dream-like enclosure.

“With so many meds in their system,” a girl’s voice breaks their bubble. Again, with these girls, always interrupting moments left and right. “I don’t think they could, you know, _get it up._ But once the meds wear off, we have to be prepared with torn sutures.”

“We’ve been suturing banana peels for practice in our study group so think I’m an expert in that area. No need for ERs when people tear their sutures due to overexertion.”

“Is it me or is this a repeat of two years ago, where every sentence spoken ended with a kiss?”

“Oh yes, I remember that, and if it’s spoken in French or Lithuanian, forget it, the kitchen is closed for _renovation_.”

“You ordered so much takeout that time.”

“I still have the menus. From then on, I learned to store water bottles in my room. Takeout drinks are expensive.”

“So, do you think they’re going to break that twenty-minute gazing record last spring?”

“They’re both standing up so they’re bound to tire themselves.”

“We heard that.”

“We meant you to,” Abigail squeaks and they both giggle.

“So, gentlemen, time to choose the winners. The Principal at K32 has been at me since dawn,” Miriam says briskly by a large wooden desk, as if she and Abigail haven't been casually discussing their should-be-private intimate life mere seconds ago.

The girls are spreading out papers of artwork, painted with watercolors, or hued with crayons or colored pencils and they all depict one scene: their fight with Dolarhyde. Here lies another side of this world again, the wickedness delighting one, where people allow children to paint such a violent scene like it was a moment in history that ought to be immortalized and put into paper. Not to mention that the children might even have to watch that video so they could get the general idea on how two men can properly slaughter a dragon man.

“Because of the, uhm, delay, your interview starts in twenty minutes, Doctor. To make this quick, we’ll spread out ten at a time and you both pick what you like. Last time you deliberated over an hour. We hope we can make this decision-making easier this time.” Abigail holds out her hand and Miriam hands her half of the papers. They both spread out two rows of five art works.

Will is immediately drawn to a watercolor of two dogs (what else), one a blonde Doberman Hannibal and a curly-headed Rottweiler Will, leaping triumphantly in the air while a black, sharp-toothed dragon with an angry slash of deep scarlet on its belly, roar in defeat. The cliff was a chaotic mix of burnt sienna and crimson, as if there was flowing volcanic lava and the sky a vibrant yellow, a contrast to a full, black moon. It’s glorious. Made by Jose, 7. He reaches for it but then Hannibal plucks it out and flashes Will a roguish grin. Will glowers at him in return and picks one that is most Hannibal: clean, coloured pencil-stitched outline of them as Greek heroes with golden armour and spears, where warrior Hannibal on the left, delivered the final blow.

Hannibal regards at what Will has chosen and nods approvingly at Dani, 8’s work. “Very ambitious of her to use pointillism, she has achieved the desired luminosity.” She did indeed, as the colors did layer out to produce depth and sheen, especially to their golden armour.

They are shown more: overly feminine versions of them wearing floral crowns and rainbow dresses, smiling over a dead, pink unicorn from Cassie, 5. A black and white piece of Dolarhyde's head impaled on the tip of Hannibal’s sword while half of his torso is at the end of Will’s and somebody needs to talk to Danny, 9’s parents about this, so he won’t grow up like the psychos on his drawing. Religious-inspired ones like David,10 and Shelby, 7’s work, where they are Archangel Husbands up in the clouds, looking down at a defeated, overly-muscular Great Red Dragon. A good number portrayed them as superheroes, with capes and costumes, with FBI labeled on their chests. Some captured their faces to dead accuracy, he points at one with Hannibal having a bloody mouth with a piece of flesh dangling from his mouth and he thinks that this Kimmy, 7, knows what’s up.

They are still holding on to their first choice and there were some really good ones, and Will is torn between a very dramatic depiction of everyone as dragons because the detailing is astounding but he doesn’t like how his dragon is the smallest and Hannibal’s is huge that he practically filled out the space, so he continues to cling to his pointillism art thing and pushed the dragons of Hunter,12, away. Hannibal chuckles when he sees Will flip them with disdain, as if he knew exactly why it was rejected.

They were down to the last ones and they were all superheroes, in one way or another so they both hold up their first choice.

“Good choice,” Miriam remarks as she takes a picture of each drawing and hands it back to them. “The flowers are scheduled to be donated to the hospitals later today and you have three days to write your thank you notes before they’re sent to Wolf Trap. One extra box of letters than last time’s, they’re already sorted so, whenever you feel like going through them…” She gestures to a set of boxes by a fireplace.

Hannibal pokes his rib at the mention of Wolf Trap and Will cheerfully pokes back. He presumes Wolf Trap is their sort of storage facility for fan mail and other items that are deemed unworthy to store in their Baltimore home. Still, he’s glad they have it and that the Will before him (if any) wasn’t too stuck up to just abandon his beautiful albeit wendigo-infested property.

Miriam looks at her watch and nods to herself. “Perfect. To the couch, gentlemen.”

Since Miriam has handed them their papers, it would be presumed that they will pose with the winning artwork and so off they stride towards the velvet loveseat. Hannibal, like a proper gentleman to a lady, lets Will be seated first then contours beside him so closely that he feels that their clothing’s atoms are meshing together.

Abigail sets a camera with a stand and makes adjustments to the lens. She instructs Daddy to move a little to the right, as he’s tilling too much in Dad’s direction, causing an imbalance. Dad could use a little more lift in the eyes, if he could please look at Daddy because he has the smize(?) down pat. They smile with their eyes for a good five minutes and Abigail clicks away. She reviews the photos and gives them a thumbs up.

Hannibal, being the opportunistic bastard, tells Abigail he would like one without the children’s artwork.

“For authenticity,” he explains quite seriously to Will. Well, at least they weren’t posing dead like a memento mori.

He knows where this is going and why fight it so he grasps the back of Hannibal’s neck and slips his lips to his.

“Smile, my darling,” Hannibal murmurs into his mouth and they tilt their lips up and even if their eyes are closed, they know their eyes are smiling as well.

Click.

“Doctor Lecter,” Miriam calls from the table and it’s been cleared, devoid of papers and flowers. A video camera, professional grade by the look of it, is on a stand facing the desk.

“Duty calls, dear husband.”

Hannibal rises and strides to Miriam. Will does as well because loveseats aren’t fun to be seated on when alone.

He sees the dogs watching them by the door post and admires again of how disciplined and respectful they are of boundaries. Dear Husband there can learn a thing or two about that. He steps back to take a proper look at the sitting room, now that that initial shock of them not in an elaborate prank has passed. Like the foyer, it also has white walls but with fancy swirling rococo patterned panels with similarly intricate crown mouldings. There is another velvet couch that faces the fireplace and behind it, a thin long table that houses various sculpture and decors. A black marble stag peeks behind the petals of peonies. The living area looks well-maintained and it shows signs of being well lived-in and he imagines the family of three converging and conversing over after dinner digestifs in front of the fire.

Hannibal is being fitted with an earpiece and his face is being powdered over with a large brush. He likes how Hannibal’s lips are plump and rosy from their (for-authenticity-purposes) kissing and that there is a sort of rouge around his mouth and chin, courtesy of Will’s scratchy facial hair. The world is going to see that mouth and will know exactly where it’s been. 

Abigail clears the flower stands to the side to reveal a television at the far wall. She hands Will a set of headphones, dons her own as well, and puts the television on mute. He figures this is to avoid feedback.

‘Up Next: FBI Agent Dr. Hannibal Lecter’ run on the CNN news ticker and a very powdered man with silver grey hair and black-rimmed spectacles appears on the screen.

“My next guest has been in the show multiple times and one whom I consider a friend. He is a Psychiatric Doctor and a Profiler for the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit. He is also known as the other half of the Profiler Husbands, the other famous half, of course, is Special Agent Will Graham. A week ago, they were attacked in their vacation home by Francis Dolarhyde, the serial killer known as the Tooth Fairy slash Great Red Dragon. They successfully fought and killed Dolarhyde, and after a week of hospitalization, they are back in their Baltimore home. Welcome back to AC360, Doctor Hannibal Lecter.”

All Will got from this introduction was: Hannibal and Anderson Cooper are friends?

The screen splits and two very smoothly powdered and chiselled faces are side by side, and don’t they look perfectly sculpted together, like Greek ivory statues while Will, if he were to be put on that screen, would look like his dog. His morose, woebegone dog.

Hannibal, for a beat remained stone-faced, then gives a polite smile “Thank you for having me, Anderson.”

“It’s always a pleasure to have you in the show, Doctor Lecter.”

“I bet it is,” Will mutters. He recognizes that look. He’s seen that on Hannibal’s face when he gazes at Will (and only to Will), that look of just being utterly smitten and not even a live fire could tear his eyes away from what he’s seeing. Anderson Cooper is smiling wide, like he just can’t help himself and if the news ticker could interpret what is written in his eyes, it would say: Daddy likes.

Will turns around to glare at Hannibal and he immediately regrets his decision because Hannibal has caught Will’s affronted stance in the corner of his eye. And he sees a subtle lift in Hannibal’s mouth, as if to silently tell Will one thing: Jealous?

Will turns around to look at the screen and hides behind his hair, uncoils his shoulders, as if to say: Shut up.

“Let me just say, you look very dashing with your new hair.”

“Thank you, I think we are both similar in style now, the classic Ivy League cut, I believe.” Hannibal primly tilts his head. Anderson Cooper mirrors the movement, with a smile so bright, it increased the brilliance of the screen.

Will snorts and Abigail shoots him a gentle hushing look. _More like the classic Life-Without-Parole cut, am I right?_ Hannibal in the television doesn’t laugh and he hates how far away Hannibal is, hates that people have to be polite on live television, hates that he can’t whisper these asides to Hannibal's ear real time. Now his joke would stale and wouldn’t have the same effect.

“Did you instruct your barber to have the same cut as mine?” Anderson Cooper gives a high, honest-to-goodness giggle and if he had long hair, he would have demurely tucked a lock of hair behind his ear.

“The barber happens to be my husband, because he thinks my bangs are in the way. I do not think he has any basis for the haircut. For his first time, he did remarkably well.”

Hannibal smiles fondly while Anderson Cooper frowns for a moment when he heard ‘husband’, but recovers immediately with another blinding smile. Will doesn’t remember if he’s seen the man smile that wide and shown that many teeth.

“I made a poll in Twitter, seventy percent voted in favor of your new hair. I have to say, the Anderson Cooper hair does look great on you.”

Did he just name a haircut after him when it should be the Doin’ Time trim? Is there an electric shaver within reach? If there is, he will burst into their flirty little banter and start shaving Hannibal’s hair on live TV. Let’s see if Mr. Giggles there still finds him dashing. It doesn’t matter if he’d be the one who’d had to endure looking at an egg-shaped, bald Hannibal, it would be worth seeing people crying over the loss of those Jail House locks.

“Thank you, though I would not opt for the same hair color, after all, there could be only one silver fox.”

Will is grating his teeth and he tries to relax his shoulders even more, like it doesn’t bother him at all that his husband called someone else a fox whereas, even if said with love, he is the very definition of ‘hangdog’.

A CNN show should be discussing on the importance of mental health or early detection of mental illness so there wouldn’t be more Dolarhydes souring this sweet world, should it not? 

He eyes the two drawers of narrow antique table behind the couch and, to show Hannibal that he isn’t interested in listening if the dashing Doctor is amenable to grey hair in the future, he walks to it and yanks the drawer pull. Maybe the world here listens to silent wishes to grant baldness to flirtatious husbands and maybe the drawer will materialize his electric shaver. A cranial saw would work, too. He isn’t picky.

Inside, are wet wipes and a small stack of paper bags. No tools for injuring heads and hair. For supposed men of action like them, it’s disappointing. He sees a black and white tube labeled Coconut Love Oil and, for lack of nothing better to do (and his hands are feeling quite dry), he squeezes the tube and rubs some to his palm. It does feel like it loves his skin, it isn’t sticky and smells like vanilla. A grey, frosted pump bottle rolls forward with a white inscription that instantly rolls a prickle of horror to the back of his neck: Uberlube luxury lubricant. Fuck. That would mean… fuck. Love Oil. He picks up the tube. Yep, in small letters by the cap reads: Organic personal edible lubricant.

He drops it and plucks out the wet wipes and furiously scrubs his hands and God, he doesn’t know where those have been and if there are certain _bodily_ _fluids_ that mixed with the lube and by its weight, it seems like a good half had been used. No wonder they smelled of vanilla because who would want to taste coconut when they’re... The small, hardly-used idiotic corner of his brain suggested he taste it, to verify if it does taste the same as it smells, then the always-used intelligent football stadium sized expanse of his brain reminded him on where these things are spread on certain areas of the body so it can make good use of its edibility.

He clutches his pearls. Animals. Pigs. Just absolute deviants.

While Will was being tortured by the universe, Hannibal and Anderson are talking about mental illness, as they should. He hears another giggle and wonders what was so funny about reports of an increase of FBI applicants due to the appeal of the Profiler Husbands.

“And now, let’s talk about that epic fight. I saw it before going to bed and I was cheering with every blow you’ve given, I didn’t care if it was in the middle of the night. It was just amazing and I’m sure the people who’ve lost their loved ones from the Red Dragon are very grateful for this very sweet delivery of justice. I understand that the Red Dragon, brought his own video camera to record both your deaths and instead, it has recorded his. Just brilliant, how it captured your fight under the moonlight. It’s almost romantic.”

“It is indeed one of the most romantic, most beautiful moments of my life. All things considering.”

“It certainly is.” Anderson gives a sigh and Will knows he’s thinking of babies he and Hannibal will have together, their own elite Children of the Corn and their names would be Hannison or Anderbal, just pompous three-syllabled names that obliges people to say in full. “And we want show one of my favorite moments of the video. It was also Twitter’s favorite.”

“Yes, please.”

Yes, please, indeed and Will shoves the vanilla lube inside the drawer and walks to the screen. He does want to see how that fight went and, though he still hates that it is now in the memories of people everywhere and that it’s one of the special scenes that Anderson Cooper watches in his bed, he does want to see how beautifully he and Hannibal had danced together.

The screen switches to a scene on the bluff house, the warm yellow light from the living room as the only source of illumination.

Three figures are moving. He spots his own form, on the ground, and surmises it was the time he was struck in the face after he stabbed Dolarhyde's backside. Blood is streaming down on his cheek. He looks glorious, if he does say so himself. Dolarhyde looks at Will’s fallen form, and turns to Hannibal but falls back as he’s struck with a swift kick to the head.

He doesn’t remember Hannibal kicking Dolarhyde and it looks really seamless, too, a smoothly executed roundhouse kick.

Then he sees Hannibal’s hair, and even in the dark, from a distance, he can still see it: his bangs. Then to their clothes: Will is wearing a tight black button-down shirt and black jeans. Hannibal, in a forest green sweater and black lounge pants.

Will turns around and Hannibal is already looking at him.

_That’s not us._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and for taking the time to read till the end to see thy twist and I wish you a good and safe day.


	9. Here We Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guess the two people in the house who are being such brats.  
> Abigail's good.  
> Miriam's good.  
> The dogs sure are the goodest of the good.  
> That leaves us with...

When did God find the time? 

He built the universe, created Man after His image and likeness, and after the heavens, the earth, and all the host of them were finished, He took His blessed rest on the seventh day, as it was all good and beautiful. 

What day was it that He decided to make another: a mirror to His first earth where the same creatures are expelled from the same wombs but have different blocks and openings to their maze paths? And when did He take time away from answering prayers and delivering punishments to billions of humans and single out two sets of men and decide that their space/time lines are worthy of a shift? 

The depth of God’s omniscience must be inconceivable to govern all these people in His vast head when Will himself is having a god-awful time trying to work around three, five if you count the now confirmed previous inhabitants in this house. Six, if you count Anderson Cooper as present company, still beaming and unrelenting on the television screen, full-on gushing to an understandably stunned Hannibal about how his kick has put action stars to shame and if that doesn’t shake the boots of America’s serial killers, he doesn’t know what will. Hannibal answers with a polite ‘thank you’ and Will can see the outline of his body just brimming with awe from the video’s revelation. 

The order of reaction for Will is that they both do look spectacular, swathed by the blackness of blood that the velvety light of the moon has streaked upon their skin. If he were to compare, he and Hannibal both had a better choice of clothing than the other two: him wearing white and Hannibal grey and the bloodbath was more magnificently emphasized for it. For such fame-seeking men, those two sure lack a flair for dramatic costuming. How would the moonlight blacken the blood when they’re already wearing dark colored clothes? 

For their lack of aesthetic sensibilities, they made up in action. Hannibal’s kick was indeed in the level of Bruce Lee that it floored Dolarhyde to the rocks by the edge of the cliff. With the enemy momentarily down, the men shared a look and Other Hannibal was mouthing something and Other Will smiles blissfully in response. Will admires how Other Will could manage that with a sliced cheek, it must be the adrenaline and yeah, maybe they are having too much of it because they look absolutely alight with fire and just vibrant with red-coiled lust, it’s almost palpable. 

Will cringes at the sight of his doppelganger releasing a shaky breath as he gazes at his husband’s body, his (and by extension, Will’s) stupid face looking so turned on, it must have been so painful down there. 

If Will would have a chance to meet them, though, he will still say thanks, that at least they wore black pants. Imagine if they were wearing light ones, the moonlight would have emphasized that. 

That was all they were shown and he thinks of the children who made those drawings. Were they witnesses to two men getting their rocks off from slaughtering a leather-clad dragon? Has anyone thought of the children?

Then, the television does show children, the screen splits into four. A girl and a boy. 

“Doctor Lecter, say hello to the winners of the artwork you and your husband have chosen. Dani and Jose.”

“Hello, Doctor Lecter.”

“Hello, Dani and Jose. Lovely to meet you.”

“Thank you for choosing my work.”  
“Thank you for picking me.”

“You both created such wonderful depictions of our battle with the Dragon. Jose, with your bold use of colours and I am quite partial to battling dogs, very well done. And Dani, your use of pointillism is quite outstanding, especially when only used with coloured pencils. Special Agent Graham was very impressed. I will not be surprised if I will be viewing both your art exhibits in the future.”

The two screens of the children becomes a blur because the kids were jumping up and down, and soon, the screen is filled with parents and family members, all vibrating with excitement because world-renowned hero Doctor Lecter sang his praises and said an earth-shaking hello to the family. Is Hannibal capable of feeling discomfort in this, knowing fully well who he truly is or does he receive it with shameless aplomb because he is that a big of an egomaniac? Definitely the latter, look how the man preens and glows from it all. 

A blushing Anderson Cooper (back from his fantasy of little white-haired Anderbal and Handerson Cooper-Lecter merrily drawing hearts on paper with him and Daddy Hannibal in their Hamptons house) asks the dizzying mass of people how they felt. 

You were both so amazing in that fight!  
You are so handsome, Doctor Lecter. Love your hair.  
Where’s the husband?  
I’m proud of my little kiddo here, I told him to use bold colors.  
Dani really worked hard on it, I knew she’d win!  
I want to be just like you when I grow up.  
I want to be Agent Graham.  
Can we see Agent Graham?  
I want to see his scar!

It took a good minute for Will to realize that Graham is his name and he looks at Hannibal on the screen whose gaze is off kilter. He turns around and Miriam and Hannibal give him a questioning look. ‘Alright, I guess’, he says with his eyes and Miriam prepares a chair to Hannibal’s right and removes his headphones and hands him an earpiece. 

He walks around the camera and takes a seat. Hannibal announces, “Here he is.” And Hannibal gives him a look of husbandly pride that translates to his now familiar ‘I want to kiss you’ look and Will replies with a terse ‘not-in-front-of-the-children’ one. 

Cheers all around for the appearance of Special Agent Will Graham. 

If only anyone from the old world could see them now. 

“Hello, everyone,” he says, lamely, feeling very self-conscious of the bandage on his cheek. “Great work, kids.”

“Can we see the scar?” Dani with the long black hair and adorably two large front teeth asks.

“You were so awesome when you pulled out that knife. That was my favorite part,” Jose exclaims while his sister nods and peers shyly from his shoulder. 

“Thanks, kids. I don’t think my doctor would allow me to peel the bandage just yet. Right, doctor?” 

He turns to Hannibal, who nods and says, “I’m afraid so. It’s still in the process of healing.”

“I’m sure Special Agent Graham would still look handsome,” chimes in Anderson Cooper, still with a blush and he is no longer thinking of his fantasy family now, but instead of a _sandwich_. Will knows exactly what that will look like: Two Ken dolls with a tangled ball of yarn in between. 

His plan of sitting on Hannibal’s lap if ever Honey-dearson continues with the flirting is put in the back burner since doing so would only encourage Mr. Cooper to concoct more three-person fantasies. And Will is always, always, thinking of the children. 

“We hope there’s a sequel,” Dani’s mom interrupts and the people behind her and on the other square bob their heads.

Anderson Cooper gives a flicker of irritation. “I was about to ask that, Dani’s mom. Thank you. So, yes, please let us know if there are talks of a sequel to Love Crime.”

Will blinks and still, nothing registers and he was relying on the fact that this world was somehow congruent with the old one. Like Anderson Cooper is the same TV anchor existing and interviewing them about a video of a fight they both know, so it should be more or less surprise free, as far as surprises go. What is a love crime what does it constitute? A video of them doing a love crime? It’s a sex video, isn’t it? If that’s the case, this world truly is hopeless, with mothers demanding for a sequel of a sex video in front God and all His children.

Hannibal also remains without words and just gives one of his placid smiles. 

The people on the squares of the screen were nonplussed with their lack of reaction. Anderson Cooper beams. “I think they’re both not allowed to say, which means a lot. It’s been two years since the film, with yours truly participating in a cameo, and we know so much has happened since then. Everyone would love to see another one, especially now that there was so much action with the Red Dragon.”

He pauses to let the children give out squeals of excitement. “I’m sure Viggo Mortensen and Antony Dimmond are willing to reprise their roles if you both give the go ahead. Your lives are just so fascinating.”

N-O. N-O. Will frantically writes on Hannibal’s thigh. 

“Go?” Hannibal mutters under his breath. 

Will realizes he might not have spelled N correctly, since his left pointer finger was too panicked to the point of shakiness and he firmly traces a big N-O then an exclamation point, with the dot digging extra hard to his bone. Hannibal’s leg twitches and he firmly takes Will’s hand, stopping him from spelling out N-E-V-E-R!

“I’m afraid we are not entertaining a sequel of the film at the moment, Anderson, but rest assured, you will still have a cameo, a longer one.”

All one hundred of Anderson Cooper’s teeth flash and dazzle. The other people on the screen cheer. “Wow, that’s, well, thank you, Hannibal, that was a great day on set and I would love to, of course. Love Crime, for the folks out there living under a rock, is a movie about our Profiler Husbands here and the events that brought them to their union. I watched it again on Netflix last week. Wonderful movie, Hannibal and Agent Graham.”

Whatever happened to him calling Hannibal ‘Doctor Lecter’? If there weren’t children present, this would’ve been Will’s cue to sit on Hannibal’s lap, give him something to wow about. 

Then, it hits him. A movie. Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter: A Tale of Mental Mayhem. Is he portrayed as the same sweaty and shaky nightmare-plagued man who meets a sophisticated and debonair doctor? There would be similarities of Will now and then, he’s sure, even if he’s just basing it on the fact that he uses off-brand shampoo, and they have the same houses in Baltimore and Wolf Trap and all the players from the old: his dogs, Abigail, Miriam, Molly, etcetera are still present albeit living in a more wholesome, death/mutilation-free environment. Is that where the similarities end or are the Will and Hannibal here totally different? For one thing, he cannot, in all honesty, even fathom to agree to make his and Hannibal’s life into a movie. He winces at the fact that people will have a glimpse of his persona, one he has kept so hidden for most of his life now splayed out for the entire world. He was glad it isn’t a sex video but it’s just as invasive, if not more, because it is his mind. That is why he has never allowed anyone to test him, he doesn’t want a section on the mechanisms of his mind on paper to be pored over and studied by Chilton and his ilk. But here, people, absolute strangers, not just in America but the entire world, will have a general idea that this what Will Graham is like and oh god, he just remembers the title of the movie and will there be a _love scene_?

What has he done to deserve this punishment?

 _I have not been bothered by any_ _considerations of deity other than to recognize how my own modest actions pale beside those of God,_ Hannibal once told him.

_God is beyond measure in wanton malice. And matchless in his irony._

The question or answer to anything is always Hannibal. His and the other’s. Both Hannibals must have had a god-complex so stratospheric, it must have formed a bump on heaven’s floor, sizeable enough to actually trip on God’s sandals. He doesn’t know about the other guy, but of course God had to smite the man who arrogantly collects articles of church collapses and who had the audacity put God’s own poor Grim Reaper’s body of work to shame. The Reaper may have stricken more lives with his infamous scythe but was the striking elegantly and symbolically executed and crafted into nightmarish human topiaries depicting the depravity of man? He thinks not. 

No doubt they are men of dubious characters, men who will definitely not inherit the Kingdom, men who revel in spilling of blood and gore (them), and the other, desiring (too much) of the flesh and luxuriates in fame and glory but surely, they pale in comparison to the world’s slave drivers and tyrants? Surely there are more who are overachieving on the sin scale than they are. 

_God dammit Hannibal_ , he whispers then instantly chastises himself on the choice of curse, because whenever God damns Hannibal, Will is part-and-parceled in the damnation too. 

He thinks of his Sunday school upbringing when Sister Rita made his ten-year-old self memorize Bible verses and he should have known there is such a thing as religious people magic and that Sister Rita has given Will a prophesy and he should have known, really, that this is when Proverbs 6:16-19 will come crashing down on his life to remind him that he should have embroidered the whole damn thing on a pillow: _There are six things that the Lord hates, seven that are an abomination to Him: haughty eyes, a lying tongue, and hands that shed innocent blood, a heart that devises wicked plans, feet that make haste to run to evil, a false witness who breathes out lies, and one who sows discord among brothers._

Or maybe just embroider the ‘the feet that make haste to run to evil’ business because that is Will Graham right there running to the man composed of the most abominable and damnable body parts of all. Since he has not listened to Sister Rita, and was too lazy to embroider shit, it’s too late to click his heels and make an about face from hasty evil now.

God’s punishment is clear. That those two, possibly now residing in the old world (good for them), have defied Proverbs 25:27 – _It is not good to eat too much honey, nor is it glorious to seek one’s own glory_ and therefore they should live a life of infamy instead of fame. For both of them here, since they gave a lot of people grief just because they simply just couldn’t deal with how they feel for one another, their penalty is a true-to-life movie and people who just can’t leave them the fuck alone. 

It’s unfair. At least those two get to live in peace, with just each other for company. That’s what Will ultimately wants. Not an interview with Anderson Cooper or admiration of children or flowers and fan mail from all over the world or a successful career in the FBI.

Just him and Hannibal, period. 

Alright, if God was granting prayers, he would ask for dogs, too. 

There were more exchanges between the parties and he was too caught up with his own freak out to so he just nods along if Hannibal was agreeing to something. Anderson was telling Hannibal that there are other artworks out there in a special corner of the internet that’s best not to be visited, and it’s clear by the glint in his eye that he obviously did visit. Frequently.

“Again, the world thanks you for your service Special Agents Lecter and Graham. Thank you, Special Agent Graham, what a treat.”

Once Miriam gives them the signal that they’re off the air, Will removes his earpiece, stands up, grabs Hannibal’s arm and drags him toward the piano. 

“My harpsicord remains the same.” Hannibal runs his hand to the shiny black enamel. 

“Hannibal.”

“Yes, I know. We will review that video tonight. I’ll have you know that I can also execute a kick like that. Every move my counterpart has done, I’m sure I can do better.”

“Not that, well, yes, that was fascinating but what needs more urgency is this movie. I think we were brought here to remove that Love Crime thing off the face of the planet. As soon as we’re able, we go to the FBI Tech Lab, and order them to delete all traces of that movie. I don’t care if it’s on Netflix, we take it off. Let’s call your lawyer. We have money, right? If we don’t, we can sell this house and move to Wolf Trap.”

“We cannot simply delete an entire movie, Will. I think it has been out there for some time.”

“You’re right, another plan. We abduct and kill Viggo Mortensen and the guy who played me. At least that movie won’t procreate.”

“I will be killing the same man in the old and the new if that were to happen.”

“You killed Viggo Mortensen before? He wasn’t in the list of your victims at your trial.”

“No, I do not know this Mortensen but Antony Dimmond. He was your heart.”

“Heart? Why the hell would he be my heart, I don’t fucking know him!”

“Breathe, please.” Hannibal runs his hand over Will’s arm. “He was the Three of Swords that I created for you in the Norman Chapel.”

“There wasn’t any head attached so you can’t fault me for not recognizing my heart. Why are you keeping company around Italian actors who look like me?”

“It would look unsightly with a head, I simply had to cut it off. He was not an actor, he was a teacher’s assistant of Doctor Fell in Cambridge. We met in Paris. He followed me to Italy because he had caught on with my impersonation. He came to dinner in the hopes of having a ménage à trois.”

Will smirks. He reminds himself that he is in his forties and therefore, mature enough not to ask if Hannibal and what’s-her-face were having Florentine nightly ménages, _trois ou plus._

“The only trois he got was three swords piercing his ass. Alright, as soon as we’re able to drive, we go back to the cliff house. We stand on the edge of the bluff and wait to feel the prickle and we’ll switch back.”

“Crossing back to the other world is not as simple as returning to the same location and we don’t even know the events that caused the change. All the elements for the universe to contract once more must be present and we are yet to find out what those are.”

“We can’t live in a world where there’s a fucking movie about us!”

“We are dealing with elements akin to the mystical, Will and we must tread carefully. One error and we would be erased. The video will have the answers.”

“OK you’re right. The tech lab can help us if we need to splice and analyze the intricacies. After, we’ll ask them to obliterate that video too.”

“Dads, dinner’s ready.”

“Thank you, Abigail.”

Hannibal takes a step back, turns around and briskly walks out of the room without nary a glance at Will. He wants to call out to remind him of their deal that they open doors together but it would seem too needy so he counts to thirty and just gazes at the flowers until he swears he can see them wilting under his gaze. Hannibal’s absence, in its mere seconds in counting, left his chest feeling hollow and heavy at the same time. He walks out and sees Hannibal making an about face, like he’s forgotten something. Or someone. 

Hannibal quickly takes his hand and Will is stunned by the instant spread of chill. 

He tries to get a look of the other man’s face but he couldn’t make out any expression since he’s moving too rapidly, only stopping once they reach the open doorway of the dining room. 

Hannibal is cold.

“Are you alright?”  
“It’s not the same.”

They both say it at once. They pause at the doorway to take in the room where they spent the most time with in the old world. The interiors are agreeably the same, with the French door at the end, vertical herb garden, fireplace against a horizontal-grooved wall and red oak refectory table in the middle but the colors are a shade lighter, as if this is the old world’s less moody, more vibrant sister. The doors are a faint hazelnut stain, the fireplace a toned-down cream, the stag horns are a contrasting black and the herb garden ledge is white and marbled. Only the painting of Leda and the Swan remains the same. He sees Hannibal frown at the once cobalt blue accent wall, now a lively cerulean blue. Will thinks he might one day surprise Hannibal and repaint that thing back to its darker, more-suited-to-the-new-inhabitant’s-temperaments shade. 

The scents are lighter in note too, sweeter and cloying while the old is more herbed earth, like tarragon and rosemary. He prefers the old world’s better. 

He cannot say the same for the atmosphere though because there is definitely an arctic chill, more coldness than he ever felt in this room and that’s saying a lot, given he’d actually put an actual corpse on that table once. 

“Are you alright? You feel cold,” Will asks him again, squeezing his hand and Hannibal doesn’t look at him, just makes a small smile. 

“I’m fine.”

The chill took a more definite gnawing onto his bones, from his fingers down to his toes, now that Hannibal said the two words that’s mostly feared in a marriage, the dreaded: ‘I’m fine’. 

He and Molly used to play this game, once someone utters those words, so starts an exhausting chase on guessing what special event someone forgot or what thing one should have said when they were in that party. Sometimes the ‘I’m fine’ would be just that, because women have periods and PMS. Or not, because sometimes, a wife wishes her husband would be more ‘present’ in the marriage. 

If they’re counting, it was uttered by him more, especially after he accidentally breaks a teacup. And he dropped those fuckers a lot. A shattered teacup would remind him of one person and Will would think it as a sign, an omen of that man’s death. He would quickly turn on the TV and see Anderson Cooper, rattling on about the political issues of the day and there would be no news on the ticker about the death of a famous serial killer detained in a criminal asylum. A check on his phone and a frantic search on Tattle Crime, where there are updates and that would tide him over for a while until the next cup/mug/plate would shatter and his cycle of nerve-fraying would begin once more. Molly would ask once, Will would answer and would ask again then he would just say he misses his dad. Or that he’s sorry they’re still not pregnant and that maybe they should just get another dog. The reasons (excuses) alternate.

If Hannibal had died, his ghost would have a kick out of watching Will utterly breaking into pieces once he hears the news and sees the drawings of his dogs. Ghost Hannibal would need popcorn because his breakdown would rival that of a daytime soap opera’s heroine who just found out her lover was killed.

Hannibal lets go of his hand while they are walking in the middle of the room and Will almost wants grab his arm back and ask if he’s fine again, just to speed the process up.

On the table are four place settings. Two bowls of clear soup were already placed and Hannibal takes a seat at the head of the table and looks wanly at his bowl. To its right, is a small dish that holds capsules and tablets, his medication. Will has the same and doesn’t that set the icy, sterile tone of the room even more. 

He takes his seat and just looks at the other man, trying to decipher the sudden shift. What part of the past was he reminded of? There was something off-centered about Hannibal’s sudden departure from the sitting room awhile ago. It had just been their conversation about that movie and the video of their mirror selves, and before, the interview with Anderson Cooper. That might be it, that Hannibal is reminded of Old-World Anderson Cooper, one who was very contradictory of Hannibal’s insanity plea. There was a rumour that Hannibal had declined an interview from him and that’s why Mr. Cooper was one of the staunchest supporters in the offing Hannibal’s ‘sick and twisted’ (his words) head. Will hasn’t even remembered that until now and he feels the urge to give a full seethe and blames himself for having had allowed Anderson Cooper to ruin their dinner. He should have just told Hannibal to decline. 

Abigail and Miriam pour in with the dogs. Winston sits by Will’s feet and Buster at Hannibal’s. The rest of the animals take a spot around the open fireplace. It’s clear that they’ve already eaten as there’s a heavy countenance amongst their limbs. Buster rubs his nose on Hannibal’s leg and the man gives two scratches behind its ear. He gives Will a one-second smile then looks back at the walls. 

“We can restore it to look like your old dining room. I like yours better.” Will says, cupping his hand on Hannibal’s elbow, an attempt to pull him back, because it looks like he’s laying down his walls brick by brick with Will at the other side and that is simply not allowed.

“Thank you. Our friends would be in for quite a surprise when they return, then.” Hannibal’s face remains as closed as his statement and he looks at Will again and releases a small breath. The marital game of I’m Fining involves a lot of wistful sighs, too, and Hannibal as a husband isn’t different with the symptoms. 

The girls have their own filled-out plates of roast chicken, mashed potatoes and Greek salad and they look so hearty and filling, his stomach gives a longing rumble. There was none of Hannibal’s dramatic plating and this is the first time he’s seen normal food on Hannibal’s ornate table. Hannibal gives it a glance and his face remains marbled. 

Will lets himself be filled with memories of dialogues and dinners held on the table and it dawns on him that none of their dinners had been happy. He cannot recall a single time when a laugh rang out or when voices were loud with mirth. There were furtive smiles, dramatic slow-motion chewing and swallowing of rare birds, and eye contact so intense, they would have bored holes into each other’s skulls, but none of that had been, to put simply, filled with the joy that a good dinner should have brought. 

“So, Daddy, you first. Guess how many cards we got this time.”

Will, and possibly Hannibal, were too busy imagining flashbacks of their sad dinners in the past and recollecting their last one, their last supper where Hannibal served lamb and offered Will forgiveness but Will was too caught up in his own bullshit at that time to take a stand, that they both failed to notice (again) that there were other people in the room.

Was Hannibal reminded of their last supper?

“Pardon?”

“Sorry, I meant the invitations for swinger’s clubs. Guess how many.”

Will wants to know when this world would stop thinking about sex or reminding them about it and how every conversation seems to be centered towards matters of the flesh, if he could please tell it to give them a break because there is definitely nothing sexy about a visibly troubled husband, a bowl of tepid soup and a salad of pills on the side. 

“Ten,” he says with a smile that Will knows is forced but Abigail is too light in a mood to notice. 

“How about you, Dad?”

“Twenty.”

“Half-way, it’s fifteen!” 

“God, how many swingers clubs are there in Baltimore?” says Miriam incredulously.

“Some of these are out of state, I think we collected fifty so far.”

Will moves his hand to Hannibal’s arm and leans his head forward to fully look at him. “Maybe we could pick one and confirm our attendance just so they could go in a frenzy.”

Hannibal lifts the corners of his mouth to a replica of a smile but it doesn’t give a crinkle to his eyes, as there seems to be a rope of thought or a memory that is squeezing at his throat. He gazes back at him in mixtures of fondness, pensiveness, a hint of melancholy and Will catches it: disappointment. A low, sinking feeling floods to the bottom of his stomach and his scar throbs in sympathy. He wishes he had powers of absorption, that one touch can siphon it all away, especially that unpleasant emotion called disappointment, drink it all away until Hannibal doesn’t even know the definition of the word.

Will remembers how Hannibal’s shoulders had hung heavy in their last supper as he tells Will he would still forgive him, as if he already knew of Will’s betrayal and still, there Hannibal was, flaying his skin open, offering Will to pour more salt. 

Is that the memory that is plaguing him so?

“Why not make an appointment to all of them, all at the same hour?” Hannibal delivers it as if he is grating out stones in his mouth. He smiles again and looks back Will in a poor attempt at mirth. Hannibal is clearly trying to mask his present hurt as he doesn’t want to ruin whatever peace they currently have. Will can’t stand feeling it, his vessel of empathy fully open now, and he is also choking at the sheer forlornness seeping out from Hannibal’s sleeve. 

The girls both burst into laughter and they ponder on the possible traffic jams that night will produce, that all the babysitting jobs would be fully booked and stores would run out of sex paraphernalia. 

“Let’s eat, Will,” Hannibal tells him gently and nods in indication to his hand and he realizes he’d been gripping his arm too hard. He gives it a pat and says sorry.

The moment Hannibal lifts his spoon, the girls stop with their banter and wait for Hannibal to take his first sip before they lift their own forks to eat. When Hannibal’s winter mood is over, he makes a note to tease Hannibal that his counterpart has the same dining etiquette as the Queen of England’s, that no one starts eating unless she does. 

Hannibal makes a miniscule flinch and drops his spoon. “The soup is too sweet, Abigail.”

Abigail’s forkful of lettuce freezes in mid-air. “It’s vegetable broth, Daddy. I didn’t make it sweet.”

Hannibal turns to Will as if to prod him to taste it as well. 

“Will.”

Hannibal’s attention is on him, at least and he’ll take it. He lifts a spoonful in his mouth and actual liquid sugar attacks his tongue. It would be rude to spit it out even if he wants to and he also does not want _disgust_ to write on Hannibal’s features so he just washes it down with water. 

“Soup isn’t very good.” Will looks at him expectantly and makes his eyes as wide as possible and waits for Hannibal bestow upon him an affectionate smile. There was a smile alright, a thin, barely there one and his eyes flicker over Will’s forehead scar to acknowledge he connects with the memory and he does look like he wants to utter a playful response but then there seems to be another memory clouding his eyes so he looks away from Will and gives Abigail a disapproving look. 

“Maybe the medication is still spoiling your taste buds. I can get another bowl if you like, Daddy. Has your soup gone cold? Dad, I’m sorry, you can’t have hot liquids yet.”

“It does taste the same as the soups I’ve had in the hospital,” Will agrees. “Does yours also taste the same?” He slides and clutches his hand to edge of the table and leans forward. Hannibal did notice his gesture and he regards Will with long look. A flicker of affection, but it’s like toward a child who he could never get truly angry at because he didn’t know any better. 

“They also tasted sweet.” Hannibal answers. “No thank you, Abigail, I will manage.”

Will wants to whisper that prison food tastes better than this but Hannibal is scooping his soup in quick, mechanical sips like he’s consuming army rations.

Hannibal makes a gesture to get up then he glances at Will as if only remember he is there and sits back down and how very dare he? Will wants to yell and pour his own pathetic soup on Hannibal’s lap. What should he do? Ask him, ‘Babe, you OK?’ like some kind of animal?

“Finish your soup, Will.”

Will knows he’s not exactly _darling_ material but it stings all the same when he doesn’t hear it. 

He obeys and quietly sips and thinks of telling Hannibal that at least this spoonful of sugar will help the medicine go down in the most delightful way. God, he’s lame. But then again, nothing’s going to land amongst the hard set of Hannibal’s shoulders anyway. 

The moment Will drops his spoon to an empty bowl, Hannibal stands up. “I will like to retire early. Thank you for dinner, Abigail. After your clean-up, come see me upstairs so I will teach you how to dress my wound. Goodnight, Miriam, thank you for today.”

“Goodnight, Doctor Lecter, you’re welcome.”

Will also says his thanks and Miriam says her ‘you’re welcome’.

Will rises, takes the pills and downs them with water. He ignores the sharp pain of the pills passing through his wound. “Let’s go,” he says because to hell if he’s going to let Hannibal order him around like one of his girls. 

Will walks ahead but Hannibal quickly catches up to him and hesitantly takes his hand. Will gives one squeeze and they leave the chattering girls behind.   
  
They walk silently out the dining hall, the dogs scattering around their feet. To the brightly lit foyer then to the bottom of a staircase where the dogs bark and very much just nudges them to a certain direction to the left. Will, and by extension, Hannibal, follow them and they face a small elevator. It seems that the dogs really are the ones giving them a tour of the place. 

“An elevator, imagine that. I would never have thought a version of me would become this lazy to climb two sets of stairs.” 

Will likes the small raise on the corners of the mouth that is Hannibal’s smile so he pushes the up button and pulls Hannibal in. “Just this once, since we’re both injured.”

“I will not object.”

It was made for at least four people but Will keeps no distance. Hannibal presses the 2 out of the 3 buttons and up they move. 

The doors open and the dogs are already waiting for them outside. 

“Welcome to the second floor.”

“Thanks, first time.”

“Whose fault is that?”

They both pause as if to truly contemplate.

“Jack,” Will declares. 

Hannibal gamely nods and gives a flash of a smirk. “Jack indeed.” He gestures to a door directly in front of the elevator. “Guest room.”

Will points to a flap on the bottom part of the door. “Dog’s room.” They open it and it is indeed just a mostly furniture less room unless one counts five dog beds as furniture. 

“Your dogs are quite the important residents, aren’t they, for them to share the same floor as the masters.”

“As they should, they’re the best in the house.” Two dogs, the girls, Patty and Sophie, yelp in agreement.

Hannibal gives a small bow. “Of course.” 

Then to the next room at the right. “This should be Abigail’s room; it was another guest bedroom before.”

“That must be yours.” He points to an oak door at the end, where it took much of the hall space. 

“No other.”

Hannibal doesn’t correct him with an ‘ours, not mine’. The dogs halt when they reach the door and he drops to his knees and pets their coats and whispers his ‘goodnight’ and ‘wish me luck’ to each one. 

When he stands up, Hannibal says, “I would but I can’t.” He waves his hand to his abdomen and then to the dogs who were funnily enough expectant of a goodnight from him as well. “Good night, gang.”

He folds away a laugh at Hannibal’s archaic word choice. 

“Welcome to the bedroom.” Said welcome isn’t quite so since the door is opened without flourish, something very un-Hannibal since the man is all about ceremony. Sure, he’s not expecting to be carried bridal-style inside but at least give him something to blush about. The spouse continues to be fine, then.

There’s no bed but a side view of a midnight blue and gold samurai armour on top of an antique Japanese lacquer chest at the end of a narrow, red-walled entranceway. Will hopes and waits for a story but Hannibal walks further inside after a just passing glance. 

“Is it the same as before?” he asks Hannibal’s stoic back as he stands unmoving in the middle of the room. Even after the events of the Kitchen Massacre, he only chose to go to ground zero, the kitchen and nowhere else. Also, he didn’t want to give himself additional grief on the fact that Alana had seen more of the house than he did. 

“More or less. Those two doors lead to the same bathroom and the walk-in wardrobe,” points Hannibal, like an unenthusiastic AirBNB host. 

There definitely will not be a detailed, more personal bedroom tour this evening. 

It is exactly what Will imagined Hannibal’s bedroom would be, though, rich, jewel and peacock tones set against dark wood. It’s not surprising there is a fireplace. Aside from keeping the room warm, it’s also practical to easily burn evidence there, like, say, a handkerchief that’s used for wiping off a drugged woman’s lipstick smeared on a glass. 

“We should change the pillowcase and sheets.” This is a married couple’s bed, after all. 

“Yes, I can identify some scent notes that are similar to ours. We’ll consider ourselves house sitters and custodians of their identities for the time being. Until it’s time to leave.”

“Leave?” Will echoes. 

“That is the plan, is it not? That we return to our original world. Excuse me, I will look for the beddings.”

_Leave?_

Hannibal heads inside the door and reappears with white linen sheets that probably has a thousand thread counts and drops them on the bed. 

“We’ll do this later. Abigail has already put your solution on the sink. Kindly rinse your mouth but please simply swish. Don’t gargle, it will irritate the wound. Then, come back to me. I have to put ointment on the laceration on your inner cheek. I also refilled the head of an electric toothbrush.”

“Thanks, Doctor.” It’s the first time he said ‘doctor’ and meant it.

Hannibal smiles at that. “It’s also ideal that you take a shower first. The bandages are waterproof, I’ll change them when you’re done.”

Will does what he was told and heads to a door inside the wardrobe room. There’s no point putting up some sort of tantrum when Hannibal is being an actual normal doctor and besides, he needs to look fresh for their (possible) fight. 

He takes a seat on a wooden bench by the door and rolls the back of his head against the tiles. Their bathroom is quite roomy, with a white standalone bathtub, no toilet in sight, most probably hidden behind a black door in the far corner, jet-powered shower in a glass enclosure and a large his-and-his marble sink. If Hannibal can detect their scents, he can feel writings of their life here and sees that the space is fully and happily shared. Shared showers, conversations during shaves and matching smiles across the mirror. Laughter bouncing off the tiles. Glass misting from warm breaths. Water splashing in the tub.

While showering, he tries and fails not to think about the hardening planes on Hannibal’s face. He congratulates himself on not mistaking the Grande-sized uberlube sitting amongst the shampoo and body wash for anything but. A bathrobe with a simple monogrammed W hangs behind the door beside an H labeled one and he wraps himself in it and steps out to the walk-in wardrobe. He catches his terry-clothed self at a full-body length mirror and sees that the shower didn’t do him any favors for he continues to look terrible and the bad juju that Hannibal’s emitting isn’t lightening the bags under his eyes and lifting the drop of his shoulders. He’s never had this with Molly, that whenever they have one of their Mexican standoffs, at least he can still function. This with Hannibal, it’s as if an entire planet’s gravitational pull is thrust on his orbit. 

His side of the closet is on the right since the coats on the left are more in the colorfully, imprinted, tailored variety. He manages to locate a set of plain blue pajamas, and thank God, new, fresh-from-the-package underwear. 

He steps out to see Abigail closing in a bandage over Hannibal’s surgical incision on the bed bench. 

“Hello, Dad, you’re next.”

Hannibal looks up and follows every inch of his movement. 

“You took a shower,” Will notes since Hannibal’s already clad in maroon pajamas and his hair is flat from moisture.

“In the guest bathroom.”

“Why didn’t you just wait for me to finish?” he snaps, feeling his fists tighten. “You’re not a guest, it’s your bathroom too.” 

Unbelievable. Hannibal has drawn first blood, choosing an aggressive move in the game by deliberately using distance. That bathroom of cherished husbandly moments doesn’t deserve to be shunned. 

Hannibal pauses and Will lets himself be read for the present state he is currently in: a man nearing the stage of blowing his top. 

“Allow us to treat your bandage, darling. Kindly remove your shirt.” They lock eyes for a heavy moment and Will wins Round One since Hannibal drops his eyes and picks up a roll of bandage amongst the medical paraphernalia on a small table. 

With all the kindness he could muster, he unbuttons his shirt all the while looking at Hannibal’s unmoving, avoidant face. 

It’s a good time as any to release a long, tired breath and Will goes ahead with it, once then three more times even if he knows that one of the rules of fight club is one does not mention or give an indication that there is a (burgeoning) fight and the perfect time for it is always when the dam bursts. 

“Are you alright, Dad?” Abigail asks. 

“I’m fine,” he answers. Hannibal doesn’t seem to recognize the game and he can’t fault him too much for it since his marriage with Bedelia was a sham to its core and he’d bet good money that all they talked about was Will Graham. They wouldn’t have time to play Is She Really Mad at Me or is it just PMS since there’s Will Graham looming over them like an overcast cloud. 

Since Hannibal can’t use PMS as an excuse, the game would be Is He Being a Dick or Is He Being Just His Normal Evil Self?

They both make quick work on his shoulder and Hannibal teaches her how to remove the bandage, identify the type of stitch and suture and to look for signs of infection. Clearly, Hannibal is trying to impress him to make himself seem less of an asshole who actually killed their ‘daughter’ in the old world and more of a mentorlike, patient father and that it should be Will’s cue to gush because his husband is _so_ great at raising their daughter. Good thing Will has been a stepfather to an eleven-year-old boy so he knows all the elements of a bored, unimpressed face and he employs it fully now, with slack eyes and mouth to a pout. Hannibal tells him to raise his arm and he only does it halfway before declaring it hurts if he lifts it even more. Same with his cheek, he can’t open his mouth all the way or do they want to see torn sutures? 

While Will buttons up his sleep shirt, Hannibal makes more unnecessary lectures and kneads his thumb on Will’s shoulder blade and he shifts a little to the left because there’s a particular knot that had been bothering him since last week. 

Abigail kisses Will’s forehead. “Feel better, Dad. Kiss it better, Daddy.” Abigail had of course felt the tension, so, again she plays the cute little busybody matchmaker. Either she stops kisses like that time in the hospital or she instigates them. It’s like she wants to get an ear cut off. 

Daddy shamelessly smacks him full on the lips. 

“Goodnight, Abigail.”  
“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

The moment she’s gone, Hannibal springs up. “We should make the bed.”

Yes, let’s, so they can finally see if they’re going to be laying down on a bed of roses or a bed of nails tonight. 

“I sleep on this side,” Hannibal says from the left side of the bed. He pulls out the comforter, begins stacking the pillows on the end of the bed bench and removes the fitted sheet from the mattress. Looks expectantly at Will and his still-sheeted side of the bed.

Fine. 

Will finds the gartered end of the sheet and yanks it out and pulls its entirety, Hannibal’s side included. Drops it in a heap on the floor. With an eyebrow raised, Hannibal throws him the other end of the new sheet. 

“I do not move much when I sleep so you’re free to take more space.” Hannibal sits and carefully rolls down the gartered end of the sheet.

“And I’m a violent sleeper. I might kick you.” _Or strangle you._ Depends on how the night turns out. The thrashing and night sweating hasn’t occurred for some time, though, but it might have a reappearance, now that there is a reason to thrash about. 

“We haven’t developed any semblance of physical familiarity so, even in sleep, our subconscious would still be mindful of limitations. And there’s our injuries, both of us would be on supine positions for quite a while.”

“Fine.”

“But if I do end up on your side of the bed, I’m sure you’ll let me know. Though, I hope it’s not in form of a kick.” He chuckles to himself.

“Yeah, we shouldn’t make this awkward.”

“Of course not, Will, we’re friends.”

_Friends?_

Alright, that’s it. “What’s wrong, Hannibal?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Bullshit. No one in any marriage says ‘I’m fine’ and really means it, darlin’.”

“We aren’t in one and you have made that very clear today.”

“What?” 

“You clearly do not want this, Will. Please roll the sheet down a until it folds under the mattress.” 

He doesn’t know why but he follows, to the best of the strength of his left hand, he pulls and nudges until the garter is snug under the cushion.

This is par for the course of any marriage: making assumptions. They haven’t even made it through one night and, already, he’s feeling so very married. “Give me the exact words that made you think that.”

“You know perfectly well.” This, too, that one should already know what’s the cause of the cold front when the other genuinely doesn’t have a fucking clue. 

“You remembered our last supper?” 

“I’m not one who entertains regrets, I’ve told you this. Please smooth that out by tugging the corner.” 

Will pinches the corner and tugs, and he agrees that the action did make it smoother. Hannibal walks to the end of the bed and Will waits for him to finish tucking in his end before he does his own side. 

“We rest only for five hours,” Hannibal says with a slight huff. He takes a pillow and begins stripping the linen cloth case. “Then, we plan our hunt to kill the two actors, delete the films and cross to our original world. A month would suffice, don’t you think?”

“I- no.”

Hannibal drops the pillow and stands taut and full and it’s as if they’re back to his prison cell, facing each other behind a barrier.

“No? Two weeks, then? To hasten it, we can separate. You will do Mortensen and I, Dimmond. The sooner you move back to a world where you are not married to me, the better.”

The most jarring of all words and Hannibal has said it: separate. A shock of chill hits on his chest so strong that it knocks him step back. All he could say is another ‘No.’

“The shoe has finally dropped. You no longer need to pretend with me.”

“I’m not pretending,” he grinds out. He rubs his chest to warm out the cold and deliberates on heading to the fireplace before he solidifies into ice. 

“Abigail isn’t here, no one will cry if you do not wear your wedding ring. You can drop the act and be the Will Graham we both know.”

“This is the most honest I’ve ever been in my life, I’ve never—"

“That honesty is maintained, then,” Hannibal interrupts, the whites of his eyes graying like the cement padding of his walls. “When you told me we must leave this place because you simply can’t live in a world where there’s a movie about us.”

“The movie? It’s, it’s embarrassing. Wouldn’t you be? It’s our lives, our private selves out there for the world to see.”

“Is it really that shameful to be married to me? You would rather live in a world where no one knows of our partnership? That we scurry back to the dark like rats the moment we hit the light?”

“My reservations about privacy has nothing to do with how I feel about you. Do not tell me what I feel because that’s not true. God, if you think I was playing a part- to what end, Hannibal? There is no Jack Crawford stirring the honeypot. People, Abigail, Miriam are alive and whole.”

“To survive me, as you said.”

“Give me a little credit. Do you think I draw myself close to you if I didn’t want to? If I wanted to survive, I’d leave. Do you think.” He pauses to steady himself. “Do you think I’d kiss you if I didn’t want to?”

There’s a grounding pause before Hannibal replies. “It was only part of our boundaries agreement. You can free yourself from that.”

“I don’t want to fucking free myself from you! I’m kissing you because I fucking want to kiss you. And it helps, it really helps that you’re such a damn good kisser. I’m not going to waste time worrying if I’m embarrassing myself. We might die tomorrow or transform into the animals we deserve to be but least I did what I wanted and did not let something as banal as shyness holding me back. Everything I did, from the time I shielded you from Jack, not even knowing we’ve crossed into another world, to me, flirting, yes, I am also not ashamed to define it as that and everything in between, this is the Will Graham I’ve always wanted to be.”

Signs of life slowly begin to be visible on Hannibal’s features, the thin line of his mouth becomes a little O and his eyes cast a softer glow. In spite of himself, Will can’t help but define it as charming. Charming the way Hannibal shyly tilts his face as he seemingly repeats what Will has said in his head. But then, the planes of his face harden again and Will rubs his arms to brace another gust of wind. It was good while it lasted.

“Then why so adamant in deleting the movie if you weren’t so embarrassed?” 

Will doesn’t care if he lets out a large, full-bodied sigh and he blows it out so the husband would understand that looking for loopholes from declarations of affection will not help him win this game of marital discord. 

“I suppose I simply panicked at how invasive it is, even if it’s not really our lives but their’s. I didn’t mean to make you feel like I didn’t want this. For me, husband sounds better than wife.”

He adds a small smile and it worked, the husband lifts both corners of his mouth, it’s an equivalent of a grin in Hannibal’s catalogue of expressions. 

“The other world has publications detailing my criminal mind, my monstrosity, so forgive me if I wanted to appreciate another form that is a celebration of our lo-, correction, their life. If I were to be envious of another man, it would have to be me, here, because he has chosen the right course and he gets to have his Will.”

Hannibal drops his head and picks the naked pillow and inserts it in its cover. Will gets his own and begins stripping and clothing the pillows too. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, giving his pillow a fluff. “And if we were to continue living in the other world, I would also be who I want to be, with you, I hope, and we’ll make our world smaller and smaller until the only person who knows my name is you.”

Hannibal releases the pillow he had been encasing and just gazes back at him, face alight like he has just seen a miracle performed by angels and Will loves how his face is aglow from heavenly light so he just gazes back and lets the angels sing a hymn and strike their harps. 

“Please, come here,” Hannibal rasps.

“Don’t tell me what to do.” He says it lightly. 

“So, tell me to come to you, instead.”

“You’re still giving orders. You’re impossible.” He makes an exaggerated sigh, one that earns a crinkle on Hannibal’s cheek. Finally, the crinkle is back. “Alright, come here.”

Hannibal begins to walk to go round the bed then turns around to leap onto the matress and Will understands the urgency too, so he kicks his house slippers and jumps and there they stand on top of the bed and the lips that just admitted that it loves getting kissed are ready to be given that but Hannibal was just too quick to enclose him and he is enveloped inside arms and chest and their breaths of relief are finally released. The scent on Hannibal’s neck is that of a woman’s shampoo, an amenity of the guest room if he were to guess, and he chuckles at the pettiness of it all, and heaven help him if he still finds it charming.

"I missed you," Hannibal murmurs, breath warming Will's skin and he forgets how it feels to be cold.

God, he missed him, too and it's like he went to another planet even when there was only an hour or two of emotional remoteness. He says a silent prayer of hope that their counterparts are also together in the crossing of worlds because, truly, it is utterly, utterly un-survivable with a separation. 

“Do you realize what just happened?” Hannibal asks, carding his fingers through Will’s curls.

“It’s the first time since we got here that we wanted to kill each other?”

“Hmm, contemplating murder is quite common for married people, my dear. Aside from that, we just survived our first domestic.”

“Did we? I don’t recall coming up with a resolution to this little domestic.”

“It’s remedied by us watching that movie, of course.”

Will buries himself further into the join of Hannibal’s neck and shoulder. They sway, to the angels singing Gloria Estefan’s Here We Are. “God, alright, but please give me until next week?”

“You can’t possibly make me wait that long. Aren’t you curious even just a little?”

“I am but we’re still on meds. I’m not watching that sober.” 

Their swaying rocks with their shared laughter. “I’d have to agree on that.”

“There’s another thing that I will say that would instantly make up for everything. Domestic solved.”

“Hmm?”

“You’re more handsome than Viggo Mortensen.”

“Instantly forgiven, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy, sorry, that was a long chapter, I blame the winter but I deeply hope you enjoyed it. Come yell at me below for shooting myself in the foot for adding a Hallmark movie just so I can torture Will and make Hannibal more in love. Thank you so much for reading and I appreciate it so much and stay safe and lovely.


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